


Built For This

by istajmaal



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, extremely well-disguised ot5 fluff, harry is a pretty indie boy who works at a music shop and sings his feelings, liam is kinda a homophobe, louis is on the brink of a celebrity breakdown, niall is his go-to bro, non-famous!harry, the band is in shambles, the smut will come i promise, zayn is conflicted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-03-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 09:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/istajmaal/pseuds/istajmaal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Non-famous!Harry AU. Louis is a celebrity whose career is going up in flames. Harry works at a music shop and plays guitar for free coffee.</p><p>~~on hiatus until i finish the whole thing sorry babes~~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i don't know one direction or any of their affiliates, none of this happened, and i am not profiting off this fictional work in any way except spiritually. (also, i don't know anything about how the music industry really works, oops.) (or music even.) (i only learned clarinet because of a pretty girl, okay. suspend your disbelief.)
> 
> warning: homophobic slurs, "i-don't-care-that-you're-gay-except-i-totally-do-because-it-makes-me-mega-uncomfortable" style of homophobia
> 
> notes: this is my baby. expect a gestational period of a couple of months; i'm aiming for 8-10 chapters (depending on how long i decide to make them) and updates every two weeks or so. big love to [aylin](http://lionboylouis.tumblr.com/) for her cheerleading in this, and to [madelaine](http://elainemorisi.tumblr.com/) for her extensive dealing with me in general, but especially when i couldn't talk about anything but the pros and cons of various tenses and indie harry's stylistic choices. you, my friend, are my kind of pal.
> 
> title is from the ben sollee song "built for this," which you can listen to along with the rest of my painstakingly crafted playlist for this fic [ here](http://8tracks.com/thepreviousquestion/built-for-this). if you want to talk to me about your favorite song that you think indie harry would cover at a coffee shop open mic (or anything else), come find me on tumblr at [socomicallygay](http://socomicallygay.tumblr.com/)!

Out of all the surprising things that Louis had done since auditioning for The X Factor, punching Liam Payne was the one he really should have seen coming.

It was their second Saturday in London since their break from tour had started. Zayn suggested they all come over to his house after a long day of snipping at each other over chord progressions in the recording studio.

“Lads’ night,” he insisted as soon as the recording equipment was turned off.

Niall nodded quickly. “About time!” he said. He nudged Liam in the side and, after a minute or so, Liam shrugged.

“Sounds all right,” he said nonchalantly. Like it was no big deal.

Louis gritted his teeth. “I’ll bring the face masks,” he said. Niall bristled at the bitterness in his voice, but didn’t say anything.

It _was_ a big deal, obviously. It the first time they’d been all been together outside of work for over two months. And if any of them had forgotten the reason (ha bloody _ha_ ), they were quickly reminded seven minutes after they’d settled in on the couches of Zayn’s game room, when Louis insisted they get a pizza with no anchovies and Liam rolled his eyes and mumbled _of course Louis gets whatever he wants_. And the broken record skipped again.

“I’m _just_ _saying_ ,” Liam said for the third time in ten minutes. He crossed his arms and tapped a foot restlessly. “If you spent a _little_ less time shagging strangers and a little more time contributing to the album, we might actually get something done before we go back on tour.”

Niall and Zayn looked almost bored as they settled into the couch while Louis and Liam eyed each other and ground their teeth. It was like they were watching a tennis match. Louis intended to win.

“I’ve written _half a dozen songs_ for the album, _Liam_ ,” Louis shot back coolly. He rested a hand on his hip and raised his eyebrows. “You shot down every single one.”

“Well, it’s 2013, Louis,” Liam snapped, “no one wants to hear the same old classic rock riffs over and over again. No one but you.”

“Yeah, all right,” Louis said. He took a step back and nodded sarcastically, throwing up his hands. “You think _I’m_ obsessed with myself.” Louis laughed. Niall nudged Zayn with his knee. Zayn shook his head slightly, eyes on Liam.

“Sure, mate,” Louis continued testily. “Maybe if you spent more time shagging anything but your solo career, you’d be able to keep a single person from _hating_ you.”

“We’re all friends here,” Zayn interjected. Neither Liam nor Louis acknowledged him. Niall rubbed his temples.

“Well shit, Louis,” Liam said, not sparing a glance towards his other bandmates. “Excuse me for thinking about my _career_ instead of drinking the whole bloody band’s reputation away at _gay strip clubs_ —“

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ ,” Louis replied, crossing the distance between them and jabbing his finger only inches from Liam’s eye, “put all our image problems on _me_.” He was shouting now, really shouting. “Zayn gets high _just_ as much as I do, Niall’s out _just_ as much as I am, and _you’re_ the one who almost fell off the top of a fucking _building_ —“

“Me getting _drunk_ isn’t going to lose us our _contract_ ,” Liam shouted back, leaning forward with the force of it. “But when one of your fruity friends goes to the press—“

Louis had never punched anyone before, but if the crack of bone against bone and the way Liam yowled in pain were anything to go by, he was pretty good at it. Good to know.

“Holy _shit_ ,” Niall said as Liam staggered backwards. He jumped up and pulled Louis back by his shoulders. A hot, dull ache throbbed through Louis’s hand. He didn’t go after Liam again, and Niall ended up rubbing his shoulders and staring at Liam in shock. Zayn went to Liam and pulled his hand away the massive bruise already forming under his eye.

“ _Liam_ ,” Zayn said, astonishment mixing with accusation. He glanced over his shoulder. “ _Lou._ ” He looked like he couldn’t shut his mouth. “What the _fuck_.”

“Go to hell,” Louis snapped at Liam, wringing out his hand and wincing. “I’m out,” he added to the others. “Have a good _lads’ night_ , minus the _fruit_.”

There was a time when someone would have tried to stop him from storming out of Zayn’s basement. Apparently, that time had passed.

So yeah, Louis had never reckoned on becoming an international pop star, really. He hadn’t reckoned on being in a band, or getting a record deal, or headlining a world tour. But even if he could have seen any of that coming—he should have known that somehow, he would fuck it up. Fortunately, as everyone who received his mass text as he left Zayn’s house knew ( _let’s get fucked up_ ), that was one thing he had a real talent for.

###

Louis hated sleeping alone. Always had. After his dad left, he spent more nights than he would ever admit, now that he was an international celebrity, curled up by his mother’s side, dealing with her snoring so that neither of them would wake up to an empty bed. It made it easier to close his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t wake up alone.

Louis woke up Sunday morning to the feeling of someone rolling out of his bed. His eyes popped open for a moment, took in the shadows moving in the dark room, then blinked hard as he listened to the boy he’d brought home last night rummage around on the floor for his clothes. Louis stretched a little and the boy paused for a moment, but didn’t say anything. Louis put his face in the pillow and listened to zippers being pulled up and heavy footsteps leading to the door.

“Wait,” Louis said. The footsteps stopped. Louis rolled over and sat up, sheets pooling around his waist as he rubbed at his eye with the ball of his hand.

“Did I get your phone number?” Louis asked. His voice nearly broke. His throat felt like shit. His head felt like shit. The blinds weren’t totally closed and a line of bright sunlight was falling onto the crumpled white sheets, making Louis squint.

“Uh.” Louis finally blinked into focus and saw the guy (Grant? Gale?) buttoning his sheer purple shirt with one hand while the other hand rested on the door handle. “Yeah? It’s the first thing you asked me for.”

“Right.” Good on Louis. “Yeah.” He leaned against the backboard and pushed the heel of his hand against his forehead as it throbbed again. “Someone from my team is gonna call you about a non-disclosure agreement.”

Louis had heard a lot of reactions to that line, recently, but fortunately this guy didn’t seem like he was going to throw a shoe at him. “All right,” he said. He seemed relieved that Louis won’t be calling him. “Uh. Thanks, then.”

There was a moment of silence where it seemed like he was waiting for Louis to say something. When he didn’t, the guy just said _all right_ again. He closed the door softly enough on his way out that it didn’t make a sound, but Louis still flinched.

Louis rolled back so that his stomach was pressed into the sheets and willed himself not to check the time. He closed his eyes and considered going back to sleep, but after less than a minute he checked his phone. Two hours before he was supposed to be at the studio, and half an hour before his alarm. He stared at the wall for a few seconds, then rolled out of bed. He waited until the shower was so hot it hurt to touch before he stepped in.

He was thumbing over an unfamiliar purple bruise on his hip when his phone rang for the first time, vibrations echoing loud over the tinny sound of Rihanna singing about finding love. Probably Olli. He let it ring (once, twice, three times) as he shampooed the sweat out of his hair and scrubbed the scent of spilt drinks and cigarettes off his skin. The fourth time it rang he got out of the shower and turned off the ringer, leaving a trail of water across the bathroom floor.

“Fuck you,” Louis mumbled. He got back into the shower and put his forehead against the cool tile while the hot water poured over him. It wasn’t doing anything to help the hangover that felt like it was going to split his skull in half with an axe, but neither was standing out in the cold, so. He stayed in the shower for another couple minutes before turning it off, grappled for a fresh towel, and called Olli back.

“I’m texting you a guy’s number,” Louis said as soon as he picked up. “I don’t want to hear it. Just—you’ll take care of it, yeah?” He looked at himself in the mirror for a second and then opened the drawer to look for a round brush.

Olli didn’t say anything for a moment. “Tall guy, tan, messy black hair? Leather pants?”

Louis stopped rummaging in the drawer. “What?”

“We got a call asking if you wanted to comment on the pap pictures of the guy leaving your house.” Olli sounded like he was typing something as he was talking. “That’s why I’ve been calling. I mean, we’re not going to—but. You know.”

“Shit,” Louis said. He saw his knuckles go white in the mirror. “ _Shit_.”

“We’ll put something out later,” Olli said, “you know, you don’t really care what people say about you because it’s all lies, but you wish people would back off for Eleanor’s sake.” He sounded distracted. Louis hated him a little.

“Eleanor.” Louis swallowed.

“Yeah, I know you wanted to cancel that thing Wednesday,” Olli said, “but that’s not happening. Jackie’s taking your blue suit to dry-cleaning, the paps are all set up.”

“Okay.” He touched the bruise on his hip with his thumb and flinched. “I—okay.”

“Just—“ Olli stopped typing and sighed. “Just send me the guy’s number, Lou, and go in to the studio. Tracy will give you a call in a bit once we see—well.” Louis could practically hear the way he was scratching his head. “How things are going to go.”

“They were waiting outside my house?” Louis’s eyes darted to the window in his bathroom, and even though he knew it was facing the backyard (and so foggy that no one would ever be able to see him) he slammed it shut. “I—fucking, that shouldn’t be legal, that’s fucking stalking, isn’t it?”

“We’re working on that, you know that.” Louis did. Louis knew that. But, _Jesus_. “Just—“ Olli breathed out long and slow. “It’s going to be a shit day. Just—go to work, all right? See if you can get a whole track recorded without anyone losing any fingers and let us deal with this.”

“Yeah,” Louis said. He fought the urge to throw his phone into the toilet. “Okay.” He closed the drawer he had been looking for a brush in violently with his knee. “Yeah, thanks, Olli. Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

Louis hung up without waiting for more weak reassurances and sent Olli the guy’s number. ( _Gabriel_ , he had his name saved as, like the angel.) Then he turned the shower back on and stood under the hot water for another fifteen minutes, until his fingers pruned, his skin started to turn red, and the hiss of steam no longer drowned out the vibrations of _Fucking Tracy White_ ’s calls.

###

When Louis got to the studio, nobody was waiting to pounce on him and lecture him. They didn’t need to; Tracy’s words from the ride over were echoing through his ears as he padded past the security team. _You have an image to maintain, Louis._ He gave a little head nod to the janitor he was on good terms with, Rudy. _Not just for your own sake, it’s your_ _job_ _. Not to mention_ _my_ _job, and a hell of a lot of others’._ He didn’t stop for a tea on his way to the lounge where they usually met in the morning. _I know it’s your life, but it’s not your money._

Liam and Zayn were the only ones in the lounge when Louis got there. Niall wasn’t in yet, apparently. The other two boys were hunched over Liam’s phone. Louis tugged his beanie down farther over his head as they looked up at him.

_It could all go away if you don’t pull yourself together, do you understand that? Do you really, Louis?_

Liam pulled the phone closer to his face. “An unidentified man wearing leather pants and smudged eyeliner was seen leaving Mr. Tomlinson’s house early this morning,” he read. When he looked up, Louis noticed one of his eyes was swollen. _Good_.

“Well done, Liam,” Louis said. He leaned against the wall next to the door. “Knew you’d get the hang of reading eventually.”

Liam put his phone into his pocket. Zayn leaned back into the couch, smiling at Louis weakly as he glanced between his bandmates.

“Well, do you know anything about that?” Liam said. Louis wondered for a moment if Liam actually thought there was _any_ way he didn’t know that. A year ago he might have believed it. After all they’ve changed in the past year, he was certain Liam was just being a dick.

He wasn’t very good at it. He kept looking at Zayn for reassurance and Louis rolled his eyes.

“Smudged eyeliner,” Louis said. He leaned against the doorframe. “That _is_ appalling. Guess I should’ve let him take a look in the mirror before kicking him out.”

Liam crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Louis. “I wonder how many jokes you’re going to make about this before you realize they haven’t ever been funny.”

Zayn coughed. Louis glanced over at the couch where he was trying to look as small as possible. He sat on the opposite arm. Who cared that his Vans might scuff the expensive red leather? It wasn’t his money.

“Relax,” he said. “He’s probably signing an NDA as we speak. He’s not going to say anything.”

“But other people will,” Liam said. “People already _are_.” He stood up for a second, like he might start gesticulating wildly, then shook his head and sat back down. “But you know that,” he continued. He tugged harshly at a thread hanging off his sleeve. “You just don’t _care_.”

“About what people think of my life?” Louis snapped back, keeping his voice light. He leaned his head back against the wall, then tipped his face towards the ceiling, inhaled deeply, and closed his eyes. “No, not particularly.”

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing.” Liam really was terrible at confrontation. He was far too earnest about it. Louis felt embarrassed for him, a little, as he watched the red swirls of the ceiling light through his eyelids.

“Well, Liam,” he said without opening his eyes. “I’m not surprised your mum never had this talk with you, but when two men love each other very, very much—“

“ _Every bloody weekend_ since we’ve been back in London,” and there it was, that unapologetic anger that Louis had used to try to tease out of Liam, come back to haunt him, “you know, everybody thought this would be a _break_ after the tour—“

“Oh, _everybody_ thought?” Louis said. He sat up and raised an eyebrow at Zayn, who opened his mouth but just shook his head and scooted farther into the corner of the couch. “Tell me more about what _everybody_ thinks, Liam.”

“ _Everybody_ thinks you’re out of control, Louis, you don’t need me to tell you that.” Liam’s voice rose unevenly. “And you happen to be dragging the rest of us down with you.”

“ _Dragging_ you _down_?”

Louis stood quickly. Before anyone knew it, he was halfway across the room with his hands on his hips, fixing Liam with a glare.

Liam stood up, clenched his hands into fists, and took a step away from Louis. He looked at Zayn, exasperated. Zayn swallowed and turned to Louis.

“People are saying he’s a prostitute, like.” Louis liked Zayn a lot, but for one wild second he wanted to punch him too. “It’s… it’s not looking good, Lou.” He put a hand to the back of his head and squinted apologetically, like he was trying to find a way out of this conversation.

“Well he _wasn’t._ ” Louis took a step back towards the door. Where the fuck was Niall? Niall always took his side in these things. “And if he _was_ it still wouldn’t be anybody’s business, would it?”

Liam opened his mouth and looked like he was about to start shouting. “That’s not going to stop anyone from talking,” Zayn said quickly, quietly, as he pulled himself to the edge of his seat and looked between the two of them, giving Liam a stern glance.

“And you _know_ it!” Liam threw his hands into the air and took another step backwards, accidentally knocking into the wall and bracing himself against it with a fist. “But you act like it doesn’t mean _shit_ to you if we _lose our contract_ —“

“All right,” Louis said, blood rushing in his ears. “Sorry for _dragging the rest of you down_ , then,” he said. He felt like spitting. “Yeah, I’m genuinely sorry that you’re not at least getting a good fuck out of it, Li, since _something_ clearly needs to be dislodged from your arse—“

“Sorry I’m late!”

Niall walked in just as Liam stepped forward and Louis clenched his hand into a fist. He looked between the two of them and at Zayn, who opened his mouth and shook his head.

“Morning?” Niall said. He had a box of doughnuts in his hand, which he put on the table.

“I slept with a hooker and all I do is drag the band down,” Louis said. He only glanced at Niall for a moment before fixing his glare back on Liam, whose nostrils were flaring. “That’s all you missed.”

Niall turned to Liam. “ _What_?”

Liam deflated a bit, his shoulders relaxed and he bit his lip and—yeah, more earnestness was _definitely_ not what Louis needed at the moment. Zayn started to say something but Louis didn’t catch it. He grabbed Niall by the sleeve of his jacket and pulled him out of the room before he could agree with them.

###

“He didn’t mean it like that, Lou.”

Louis hadn’t actually explained what’d happened. Louis and Liam fighting barely needed any further explanation nowadays, but given how frequently Niall was tapping away at his phone, Louis figured he was getting the story from Zayn. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel while they sat at the light.

“Pretty sure he did, actually.” The light turned and Louis pressed the accelerator down hard enough that Niall jumped a little. He was grateful that they seemed to have found their way to a maze of one-way streets as it meant that he didn’t have to think too much about where they were going (nowhere, as it were, ha bloody _ha_ ).

Niall glanced over his shoulder briefly. “You think any of those fans out front would have actually followed us?”

Louis shrugged. “Doubt it,” he said. They’d only been driving ten minutes from the studio but somehow they’d ended up in a neighborhood Louis didn't recognize.

“They definitely saw us, though.” Niall fiddled with his phone some more. “I mean.” He didn’t clarify any more.

“They didn’t even look old enough to drive, mate.” They came to another intersection that Louis thought he recognized. He turned onto a long street of full of small shops, one of which he thought he might have bought condoms on once, back when he could do that kind of thing himself without it being front-page news.

“We need you in the band, Louis,” Niall said, and Louis realized that the silence between them had become awkward. “You know we’re fucking nothing without you.”

"Preaching to the choir, Nialler.” Louis drove along the street slowly, looking for a promising turn. “I suppose I _can_ imagine you lot without me but it isn't a pretty picture.” He scrunched up his face. “You'd be boring as all fuck. Management would be _thrilled_. Liam wouldn't know what to do with himself, he'd be so happy."

“That’s shit, Louis,” Niall said. “We all would have shat ourselves in the very first interview without you. Nobody would have been happy with that.”

“Antics,” Louis said cooly. “That’s all I’m good for, then. My voice is shit compared to Liam and Zayn's--no offense, Niall. Can't play an instrument. My writing's good for fuck-all, apparently--"

"Liam was just being a dick, Lou,” Niall said, a touch of anger in his voice, “the song you’ve been working on is _great_.”

“But the antics aren’t doing it for people anymore,” Louis said. “Maybe I _should_ just leave the band.” It was the kind of thing he wouldn’t say to just anyone. He glanced over at Niall, who made a fist and shook his head.

“Will you stop _talking_ about that, Christ.” Niall put his fist to his head and exhaled. “I’ve barely had breakfast, it’s too early for this, Tommo.” Louis ground his teeth. “Where are we going, anyway?"

Ah. The question Louis had been avoiding answering since before they even left. His eyes swept over the street—fish and chips shop, dry cleaner, thrift shop—and landed on a store that had _Janet’s Music_ written in neon lights outside and a piano in the window display.

“Here,” Louis said. He parked the car and hopped out before Niall could even ask where exactly they _were_. (It was where they _weren’t_ , was the point.)

Louis pushed the door open forcefully with his hip while beckoning for Niall to follow him inside. The bell on the door rang so loudly Louis paused for a second, thinking he might have broken it.

The only person in the shop was a boy with curly hair tied back with a green scarf, sitting behind the counter in front of a wall display of guitars. He didn’t look alarmed by the bell. He just looked up from where he was sorting through a box of guitar picks. Niall brushed past Louis into the store and the boy smiled at both of them.

“Hi. Can I help you?”

The boy spoke in such a deep, placid voice, and his smile was so dimply and disarmingly genuine that Louis paused for a second before he actually left the doorway. “Yeah,” he said. He swallowed and put his hands on his hips, taking his eyes off the boy and looking around the store. “I’m musically useless, apparently. What’s a good instrument for someone who’s musically useless?”

“You’re—?” Louis looked back at the boy and saw his face screw up in concentration before his eyes widened and he stood up, almost knocking over the stool he was sitting on. “Oh my god, you’re—”

Louis raised an eyebrow. Niall looked like he was barely holding in a laugh, looking between Louis and the boy. Louis smirked. The boy tugged on the end of his baggy blue shirt and scratched the back of his head with the other hand, not taking his eyes off Louis.

“That's. I. We have.” The boy stammered and chewed his lips into his mouth. “There are tambourines?"

"A noble instrument!" Louis nudged Niall with his elbow. The curly-haired boy looked a little caught off guard by Louis’s enthusiasm. “Show me your tambourine collection, there's a lad."

“I. Okay.” The boy stumbled from behind the counted and Louis noted he was wearing black skinny jeans with holes in the knees with his blue band t-shirt, along with pointy brown boots. Indie hipster kid. Louis wondered if he’d be embarrassed if his friends knew he recognized the boys from One Direction on sight. He hoped so.

“Um, we’ve got a couple different models and sizes,” the boy said. He scratched his head again as he gestured towards one of the shelves. There was indeed a whole assortment of tambourines laid out.

“Lovely.” Louis picked one up and rattled it around next to his head. He pounded his hand on it a couple times, raised his eyebrows in Niall’s direction, and rolled his hips. “What do you think?”

“I think you look like an idiot,” Niall said. He didn’t try to stop himself from laughing.

“ _Rude_.” Louis tutted and shook his head at the shop boy. “I’m sorry, he has no manners. Can’t take him anywhere.”

Niall started laughing louder and knocked into a set of bongos. “Shit, sorry,” he said. He started trying to put them back on the shelf and in the process knocked over a whole display.

The shop boy’s smile widened, like he was trying not to laugh himself. “It’s—don’t worry about it,” he said, “let me—“ He moved to help Niall put the drums back into place.

Louis, on the other hand, gave the tambourine another couple good shakes, pulled out his phone, and angled it so that he could get a clear picture of the tambourine next to his face. Before either of the other boys realized what he was doing, he was uploading the picture of himself to Instagram with the caption _play me like a … tambourine …_

“Let’s see what the good people of the internet have to say.” Louis smiled. Niall stopped laughing, but the boy was still smiling as he rearranged the drums.

"Lou…” Niall ran his thumb over the edge of his phone in his pocket. “Did you—you know we’re not that far from the studio, and a ton of people saw us leave…”

“Oh, what _ever_ ,” Louis said. He banged on the tambourine a few more times in front of Niall’s face. "Don't you get serious on me too, Niall. I won't be able to take it."

Niall paused before shrugging. “All right,” he said. Louis shook the instrument another couple times until he was smiling again. The shop boy finished arranging the drum display and turned back to them, looking slightly less (but still rather a lot like) wild beasts has stumbled into his shop.

“D’you like it?” he said, nodding to the instrument. He smirked a little, like he had caught on to Louis’s game. Naturally, that meant he had to change tactics.

"This is shit,” he said. He put the tambourine back down on the shelf. “I’m shit at the tambourine.” He fixed the shop boy with a serious look. “You work at a music store, shouldn't you have a sense for what I ought to play?"

"Most people who come in kind of already have an idea?" The boy was definitely smirking now and Louis remembered he was a hipster who would probably burn a cutout of Louis in a parking lot at midnight with one of his hipster friends playing the cello as part of a performance art piece. Not a friend. Right.

"Well, what's your second most useless instrument, then?" Louis looked around the shop and saw a display of keyboards. He could play piano well enough to understand basic music theory, but his hands were too small (or maybe too slow) to ever really get it right. Not what he needed reminding of presently.

"None of them are useless,” the shop boy said. Louis raised an eyebrow at him. Niall was texting someone, but he snorted. The boy flushed a little. “All right. Probably a kazoo?”

“A kazoo!” Louis kicked Niall lightly in the shin and he growled at him before going back to his phone. Louis turned back to the shop boy. “That’s perfect,” he said. “I’m a kazoo player. That is my destiny. I’ll take a dozen.”

“What on _earth_ are you going to do with a dozen kazoos?” Niall raised his eyebrow.

“Well I was _going_ to give them away as gifts, _Niall_ ,” Louis said, jabbing a finger in his direction, “but just for that you don’t get one.” The boy had gone over to another section of the store and was coming back with a box. “That’s all right, I’ll just give them all to Liam. You know, to make up for how I’m dragging him down.”

“We’ve got a bunch of colors?” the shopkeeper boy was saying. He flipped the box open. Louis looked into it and frowned.

“Those aren’t kazoos,” he said.

The boy raised an eyebrow. Louis got distracted for a minute looking at his face. What a _jaw_ , framed by curls dangling down from behind the green scarf. “Pretty sure they are?”

“Kazoos are those things with the teeth,” Louis said. He waved his hand around in a nondescript gesture. “Or, like. You know, the little rectangles you blow back and forth into?”

“That’s a harmonica,” Curly said. “We have those too.”

“No, no,” Louis said. He shook his head and looked back at Niall, who had put his phone away and was watching the exchange with raised eyebrows. “I’m sure these little fuckers are totally useless. They’re perfect.” He picked an orange plastic kazoo out of the box and blew it in Niall’s direction.

“He’s not drunk,” Niall said to the shop boy. “He just gets like this.”

“I’ll take the whole box,” Louis said to the boy. He blew the orange kazoo again, as a test, then nodded definitively. “In fact, can I get a couple hundred thousand of these? We could give them out to everyone who bought tickets,” he said, turning back to Niall. “Instead of finishing the tour. It’s essentially the same level of musical experience, right?”

Niall frowned. Louis dropped the kazoo back in the box.

"You're One Direction,” the shop boy blurted out suddenly, like he’d been biting it back. He set the box of kazoos down on the counter and took a step back from them. 

"He's heard of us!" Louis smirked in Niall’s direction. "Imagine that, Niall, a _musician_ has heard of us. You'd think we were a music group instead of a walking reality telly show _._ "

Something that might have been hurt flickered in Niall’s eye, but he didn’t give Louis much of a chance to examine it before he was turning to the shop boy. “It's been a bit of a day," he said. "We’ll be getting out of your hair now, mate, sorry for barging in like this.”

"I don't want to go yet, _Niall_." Louis went to the box of kazoos and picked up a red and yellow one, then brandished it in Niall’s direction accusingly. "Despite what everyone seems to think, I'm not a fucking _child_."

"No one thinks you're a child," Niall said.

Before Louis had a chance to argue, the curly shop boy got up abruptly and crossed the room, flipping the sign on the door from “open” to “closed” and flicking a deadbolt shut. Louis saw a flash and dropped the kazoo he was holding back into the box with a sigh and a familiar churn in his stomach.

“There’s somebody taking pictures of you through the window,” Curly said, looking back almost apologetically. “Sorry, that’s probably normal. But like.” He scratched the back of his head. “Not here.”

“Fuck,” Niall said. His face went a bit white and Louis was reminded of the time they got swarmed by fans in a mall and Niall came close to puking on one of them. “Pap or fan?”

“Huh?”

“ _Is it a middle-aged man or a teenage girl_ , is what he meant,” Louis said. He rolled his eyes and walked right up to the window display. There were muffled screams as a group of eight girls noticed him and immediately started snapping pictures with their phones. Louis leaned back against the door and sighed.

“Fans,” he said to Niall. “Fucking great.”

"Is there a back way out of here?" Niall asked Curly, who was typing out something on his phone and biting his lip, glancing up occasionally at the window.

"Comes out onto the same street," he said. "You'd still have to pass them."

“If there are that many already, there are going to be more.” Niall bit his nails. Louis straightened up and peeked out the window again.

“My car’s right there,” Louis said. “I can take a few pictures with them while you get in and then—oh, hell, _more_.” A van pulled up and what looked like a dozen fans pulled out. “They’ve gotten _organized_ ,” Louis said with a moan. “Like the goddamn mafia or something.”

“We should really call Paul,” Niall said. His voice had gone up an octave and his hand shook a little. Louis felt the urge to pat his shoulder or something, but remembered that crowding Niall when he was getting claustrophobic didn’t help. “I’m going to call Paul.” He pulled out his phone and walked to the corner of the store. He braced his head against the wall as he pulled the phone to his ear.

There was another flash as one of the fans with a big clunky camera went to the far end of the window display and tried to get a photo of Louis hiding behind the door. “Fucking photos.” Louis rubbed his temples. “Why do they always have to take fucking photos.”

Curly shrugged as he watched people take photos of him on their phones. “They’re just excited,” he said. Then he leaned against the wall next to Louis, effectively blocking him from the view of the girl with the camera. When he gave Louis a weak smile (just one dimple), Louis smiled back.

“What was your name?” he said.

The second dimple appeared. Louis tried to remember the last time he noticed someone’s dimples. “Harry,” the boy said. He held out a hand.

“Harold.” Louis took his hand and shook firmly. The boy kept eye contact with him a second longer than was strictly necessary. “I like it. Very proper. Very English.”

“Paul’s pissed,” Niall called from across the room, without looking over at them and the crowd around the window. “Wanted you to know.”

"That’s Niall," Louis said. He turned a little so that he was facing Harry, and was grateful that the other boy was taller and broader than him as he was still shielded from view. "He's the Irish one. Not proper English like you, Harold.” The boy raised his eyebrows. Louis put his head against the door with a thud. “I’m not the English one,” he continued.  “I’m the slutty one. I'm also English, so I guess I might be the slutty English one, though apparently my slutty ways are known the world over, mum will be _so_ proud."

“You’re not the slutty one,” Harry said. “You’re…” He shrugged. “Louis.” He paused, then laughed a little and said, “Is it weird that I know that?”

Louis surveyed the boy in front of him, with his pushed-back curls and long pendant necklace and wrist full of ratty bracelets. “I think you’re kind of weird,” Louis said, with no malice. The boy snorted and covered his eyes with his hand for a minute. Louis laughed a little as Harry peeked out at him from between his fingers. “Are you wearing nail polish, Harold?”

“Is that really a question?” Harry removed his hand from his face and glanced down at the chipped purple polish on his right hand before glancing back up at Louis, who shrugged. “It’s just Harry, by the way.”

“ _Just_ Harry?” Louis scoffed and shook his head in disbelief. “You’ve got to believe in yourself, Harold! Believe in yourself and you could be a star.” He took a step away from the door and the buzz of fan chatter turned into a shout and a couple dozen flashes (just what this situation needed, _more cameras_ ) before he slumped back against the door.

“I’m fine just being Harry, I think,” he said.

"Right," Louis said. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his trackies and ignored the buzzing of his phone. "You're a stupid pretty boy who probably plays the mandolin and writes incomprehensible lyrics.” He kicked at the door lightly. “You'd be offended if more than sixteen people ever heard the EP you recorded in your uncle's garage. Too mainstream."

Harry looked down and tugged at one of his bracelets absentmindedly. “That's a lot of assumptions,” he said after a moment. Louis wondered how someone so easygoing could _exist_.

“More fans,” Niall said. He was still on the phone with Paul, glancing through the blinds in the window on the other side of the store. “ _Fuck_.”

Louis turned back to Niall and saw that his hands were shaking a little more. “Hey,” he said quietly, frowning. He took a few steps closer to Niall, not wanting to crowd him. “It’s gonna be fine, yeah?” he said. “Do you want some water?”

“I can make you a cuppa?” Harry said. “If that would help?”

“No thanks, mate.” Niall inhaled heavily. “Do you have a loo or something?”

“Behind the counter,” Harry said. “To the right.”

Louis caught Niall’s eye as he rounded the corner of the counter and turned to the loo. “Just need a minute,” Niall said. He looked a right wreck. Louis nodded slightly, _sorry_ hanging unsaid on his lips. Niall nodded like he acknowledged it anyway. When he went into the loo, Louis exhaled slowly and brought his fist up to the door.

“Do you really hate them?”

The curly Harry kid spoke quietly. “Hmm?" Louis turned back to him.

"Your fans,” Harry said. He looked over his shoulder at where the small crowd of girls kept pressing against the window. "You act like you hate them." When he looked back at Louis, his eyes were bright with a quiet curiosity that didn’t seem to fit the accusation.

Louis shrugged and put his hands deeper in his pockets. “Well, they're a fucking annoyance, yeah."

"That doesn't seem very fair." The kid’s voice was deep and soothing for someone who looked so much like an overgrown toddler. Louis wondered if he was a singer. He shrugged again.

"I walk outside and I get mobbed,” he said. He gestured towards the counter. “Niall’s claustrophobic, he gets panic attacks. Does that seem fair?"

"They're just excited, though.” Louis scoffed. Harry looked indignant and glanced over his shoulder again. “What! They like you. Why would you resent them for that?"

Louis snorted. “I wouldn’t have thought someone who's into--" Louis read the name written on the band shirt "-- _Ben Sollee_ would empathize so much with One Direction fans."

“You know who Ben Sollee is?” Harry’s eyes went a little wide and Louis almost let out a genuine laugh, before deciding on another derisive snort.

“No idea,” he said, “that’s _exactly the point_.”

“Oh.” Harry grinned a bit before leaning back against the doorframe and crossing his legs a bit, the toe of one foot tapping on the ground. “I dunno, I just think—“ Harry paused, shrugged. “You were just a normal guy, and now you’re living the dream? That’s cool. That kind of thing can be cool.” He looked down at his shoes, then grinned lopsidedly at Louis again.

Louis shook his head dramatically. “Listen, young Harold,” he said. “Usually I charge for this kind of advice but you seem like the type that can’t afford jeans that aren’t two sizes too small—“ Harry furrowed his brows and said _heeeey_ , but Louis continued unabated “—so I’ll give it to you for free.” He looked the boy directly in the eye and said slowly, enunciating carefully, “There's no such things as living the dream.” Then he slouched back against the doorframe. “Anytime you come anywhere near close,” he continued in more of a grumble, “you come up with a new dream, and it's probably the total fucking opposite of what you were originally dreaming about." He kicked at the ground.

Niall popped his head out of the loo. “Paul says two minutes,” he said. He looked slightly less like he was about to throw up. Louis wondered if that meant he already had. “And the police.”

Louis groaned and put his face in his hands. “Hand me over to the police, then,” he said loudly, to Niall, before continuing more quietly, “if I have to endure another one of his _disappointed father_ looks I’ll die.”

Niall disappeared back into the loo. The phone in Harry’s hand lit up and started playing a slow violin piece.

“That’ll be my boss,” Harry said, glancing down at it. “I’m gonna—“ He gestured towards the counter with his shoulder and as he picked up the phone. “ _Janet_ ,” he said, “listen, you won’t _believe_ —“

Having nothing else to do, Louis put his hands in his pockets and watched Harry pace around the store, talking low and occasionally pausing. The boy had outrageously long limbs, Louis noted, as he wove one hand around in the air and glanced back in his direction.

They made eye contact and Louis smiled. Harry ducked his head away, but was grinning a bit like an idiot. Louis wondered if he had a sister who was a fan or something. Or if he was a closet fan himself. (Well. Going by the kid’s affinity for headbands, purple nailpolish, and extended eye contact with attractive male celebrities, Louis wasn’t sure ‘closeted’ was the best word to describe him.)

Harry was still talking on the phone a couple minutes later when there was a knock on the door behind Louis’s head. He jumped. Niall came out of the loo quickly.

“That’ll be Paul,” he said. Louis’s phone started ringing in his pocket. He undid the deadbolt on the door and a moment later, before he had the chance to check and see if it was actually Paul, he was being pushed back from the door as Paul and a few other members of their security team burst in.

Niall came out of the loo looking even more anxious. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, putting his hand to his forehead.

“I’m sure we’ll talk about this later,” Paul said, watching Louis as he crossed his arms, “but I’m inclined to agree. You know the drill, lads—just stay close to us and try not to do anything that’ll get them to mob you.”

“Bit late for that,” Louis said. “Isn’t it?” He glanced back to where Harry was watching them, still on the phone, biting his lip. Paul flicked him on the nose.

Niall went out first, with Paul and one of their other bodyguards. Louis watched through the window. He was about to follow, teeth gritted, one of the bodyguards’ hands already firmly around his arm, when he heard, “Wait!”

Louis turned his head. The bodyguard’s grip loosened on him as Harry approached him with a pen and pad of paper in his hand. “Will you, um.” He looked bashful, glancing down at Louis’s hands. “Would you sign this for me?” He held the pad of paper out.

Louis’s jaw dropped. “You're a _fan_ ,” he said. A wicked grin spread over his face.

“Shut up,” Harry said, shaking his head but smiling widely as he shook the pad of paper. “I’m--whatever, just sign it.”

“You’re a hipster teenage boy and you love One Direction.” Louis put his hand over his chest and wiped away a fake tear. “That's the cutest thing I've ever heard. I bet you’re going to get this tattooed over your heart.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t be the first,” Harry mumbled. He kept smiling as he pressed the pen into Louis’s hand. “Boobs all over England must be covered with your name.”

Louis took the pad of paper. “Just yours, love.” _You could be a star, Harold_ , Louis wrote, before signing his name and adding a little star next to it. He winked as he handed the pen and paper back to Harry. “Thanks for your time, love,” he said. He flashed a cover-of-Teen-Vogue smile with an exaggerated thumbs up before his bodyguard was ushering him out the door again. Out of the corner of his eye, he thought he might have seen Harry give him a thumbs-up back.

###

A year ago Louis would have been properly chewed out for the music store mob fiasco. That wasn't what happened, though. The look Paul gave him as he ushered them into the van through the crowd of fifty or so girls (and a few guys) wasn't a disappointed father look. It was the look you give to a spider before your friend smashes it under his shoe.

Liam and Zayn looked like they were having a serious conversation when Louis and Niall came into the control room a little while later. Liam went silent and didn't look at Louis. Not that Louis looked at him to find out. He crossed his arms and smiled wanly at the tech guys.

"Let's lay down some harmonies, lads, yeah?" Zayn said. "For that song Liam's been working on. Nice and easy."

“Sounds great!” Niall said quickly.

It wasn’t great. Louis missed almost all of his cues and his pitch was off. He _knew_ that, and Liam knew it, but Liam just ground his teeth and didn’t say anything. Louis felt like shoving a kazoo in his mouth. They called it quits after an hour, without coming up with anything they were likely to use. Liam left quickly, mumbling that he was going out into the front to take photos with some of the fans. 

“Do you want me to come ‘round to yours?” Zayn asked Louis after Liam was gone. “Lads’ night? FIFA and beer?”

“Nah, mate,” Louis said. He thumbed over his keys in his pocket. “Had a bit of a busy weekend. Think I’ll just be turning in early.”

Louis didn’t turn in early, though. When he got home, he microwaved himself a plate of macaroni and cheese and watched Gordon Ramsay shout about plating for an hour. Then when he was curled up in his duvet on his couch, ready to sleep, his phone went off with a text saying _all set thanks for everything x_ from Gabriel.

It took Louis a minute to figure out that that was the guy from last night. After he did, he clutched his phone in his hand and pressed it against his forehead.

He hadn’t even been a good fuck. Louis wasn’t sure if that was supposed to matter. Maybe he should call him after all, he thought. Just to see what he would say. It could be funny.

Instead, Louis tossed and turned for an hour before deciding to change the sheets himself instead of waiting for the housekeeper to do it. He couldn’t find the spare sheets after half an hour of looking, so he loaded the crumpled, possibly-stained sheets from last night into the washer and sat on it while it spun. He opened up Twitter on his phone with the intention of replying to some fans, but instead ended up scrolling through his mentions ( _fag hooker homo queer fag role model hooker fag_ ) until the washing machine, and then the dryer, went still underneath him.

He fell asleep in clean, dryer-warm, staticky sheets, which was the next best thing to a human body, probably. He didn’t call Gabriel. It probably wouldn’t have been that funny.

####

On Wednesday, they sat down and had spelled out to them what they all already knew: if the band didn't resolve its differences and finish the album before the break from the tour was over, they'd be finished. No new contract, no new album, they'd never tour again.

Liam looked like a vein in his forehead might burst. Zayn lit a cigarette indoors. Niall cried. Louis went out and had the worst night of his life.

It started the same way a lot of shitty nights did: Louis meeting pretty brunette student Eleanor Calder for dinner at an expensive SoHo restaurant, awkwardly holding her hand and pretending to be annoyed by the paparazzi. This time, though, instead of being peppered with questions about when to expect an engagement, they were assaulted with _Eleanor, how do you feel about Louis cheating on you? How does it feel to know he’s been using you? Faggot._

Louis liked Eleanor well enough, really. She was helping him out, even if he wasn’t too happy that they’d insisted on hiring her instead of letting him continue the straight charade with one of his own girl friends. She had become a friend, though, sort of, and he didn’t even mind too terribly much how she rubbed soothing circles into his hand on the table (where a conveniently placed “fan” could spot them). But it wasn’t enough comfort to keep him from getting a cab to Canal Street as soon as their “date” was over. The last thing Louis remembered was that his fourth shot of tequila had been off a go-go dancer’s stomach.

The night ended with Louis waking up next to a puddle of vomit on the floor of a room he barely recognized as a mutual acquaintance’s living room. It was five in the morning. His throat felt like it was on fire. He couldn’t remember if he’d slept with anyone. He called a car and, while he was waiting on the patio for it to come, googled himself.

_Louis from One Direction spotted at gay club. One Direction’s Louis Tomlinson cheater, gay? Louis Tomlinson out of control._

At least there was nothing about him sucking some guy off in the bathroom.

That didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

###

The next day, after throwing up twice with his forehead pressed against cold porcelain and once into his kitchen sink, Louis came very close to going home to Doncaster. He packed some things into a bag and threw it into the backseat of his truck before he thought about how Lottie, at least, must have seen the tabloid rumors. He sat in the driver's seat, the key in his hands, and thought about the look on his mother's face when he'd said goodbye to her last time, after he'd told her he wasn't sure the band was going to work out. She'd been so fucking _sad_. He hadn't even talked to her since Sunday. He put the key in the ignition, thought a minute, then turned it and left the drive, but he didn't go to the motorway. Instead, he started driving in circles.

Incredibly, there were no paps waiting outside his house to follow him. Louis let himself drive around in circles for a while. He didn't really pay attention to where he was going, just to whether or not anyone was following him; and when he found himself in front of the music store he and Niall had gotten mobbed in earlier that week, he wasn't really paying attention to how he was pulling to the side of the road and parking until the keys were already out of the ignition.

He looked over his shoulder again. There was still nobody following him. Given that he'd already decided there was no way he was going to go to work today, there was no particular reason why he shouldn't go in. There was no particular reason why he _should_ , either, he supposed--but as he pulled his beanie down low over his ears, tugged his jacket around him tightly, and entered the shop, catching sight of the curly-haired shop assistant, he figured that could be as good a reason as any.

"Hello there," Louis said. The low sound of acoustic guitar and a scratchy voice filled the shop. The curly kid—what was his name?—looked up from where he was fiddling around on the computer and blinked several times in surprise, knocking the mouse off the desk as he stood up quickly. Louis relaxed his shoulders a bit. He wandered up to the counter and leaned his elbows on it.

“I was curious if you actually got my name tattooed on your tit,” Louis said, fiddling with his keys in his hand, “or if it was just a line.”

"I." Curly clicked the music off just as the song was reaching a rousing chorus. "Sorry, no.” He swallowed. “Can I help you?”

Louis surveyed him carefully. He was wearing blue skinny jeans and two plaid shirts (what the _hell_ ), one blue, one yellow, layered over a white t-shirt. There was a deep purple scarf pulling his hair away from his bashful face. “I’m not entirely sure I believe you,” Louis said. He thought Curly might be wearing eyeliner but didn’t want to look close enough to tell for sure.

"I never said I'd get your name tattooed on my tit," Curly said. He glanced back at the computer before taking a step towards the counter. " _You_ said I would."

"And if you were really committed to the gag, you would have done." Louis tilted his head to the side. "Do you have commitment problems, Curly? Or just trouble following through?" It felt easy, teasing this boy. Easier than anything else he could be doing, anyway.

"I--" Curly shook his head but he was smiling. "Can I help you with something?"

"You already asked that." Louis drummed his fingers on the counter absentmindedly.

"Well, you didn't answer." Curly sat on the high wooden stool behind the counter and looked altogether far too chuffed.

"Well,” Louis said with a huff, “ _you_ didn't answer _me_ either."

"But _I,_ ” Curly said, gesturing to himself, _“_ wasn't being a _tit_."

“People always reduce me to my tits,” Louis said with an exaggerated sigh. “That's low. I feel objectified."

"You're an arse.” Curly smiled even more. Louis wondered why he wasn’t asking why he was here. He was certainly was asking himself that. Curly pulled out his phone.

Louis shrugged. "That's a bit more accurate, anyway,” he said, watching what Curly was doing with the phone carefully. Curly opened his mouth, then closed it again, typing something out with his thumbs.

“Are you tweeting that I'm here?" Louis said, a bit sharply. Curly looked up abruptly. "Because I'd rather you didn't, honestly. I'm in enough shit already as it is."

"No, I'm." Curly frowned. “Just texting my boss. To let her know you're here." He waved his phone in Louis’s face, showing that he had a text message open. All Louis really noticed was that he still had purple varnish on his nails, though it was considerably more chipped.

"So _she_ can tweet about it? Great."

"I don't think so,” Curly said slowly. He seemed to say everything slowly. "It's just…” He scratched behind his ear. “Last time was. I should just tell her.”

"Twitter's all lies, anyway,” Louis said. He drummed his fingers more insistently on the counter and looked over Harry’s shoulder. "People will believe anything one of those at-signs tells them. It's stupid."

From the way Curly coughed, Louis was certain that he had heard the rumors about him. Could he call them rumors if they were true? Louis felt like he might be sick for a minute. “Oh?” Curly said politely.

“For instance,” Louis said, his throat tightening a little as he made eye contact with Curly again, “half of Twitter is currently convinced I regularly sleep with male prostitutes.”

Curly’s mouth opened wide, like a dead fish. (Maybe prettier than a dead fish.)

“Like I’d ever _pay_ to have sex with someone,” Louis continued. He walked his fingers along the countertop before tapping out the melody of the song that had been playing when he came in with his fingertips. “People should pay to have sex with _me_."

Curly made a noncommittal squawking sound before closing his mouth and shrugging. He crossed his arms over his chest. Louis smirked.

“Would you pay to have sex with me?" he said with an exaggerated pout.

Curly tugged on the end of one of his (many) plaid sleeves. “Probably?” he said, his voice rising uncertainly. He looked up at Louis through his eyelashes, like he wasn’t sure if he had said something wrong.

"What was your name again?"

"Harry,” Curly mumbled. He dropped his arms to his sides. “No need to ask yours.”

"Harold!" Louis clapped his hands together. "How could I forget. Great name, very English.”

Harry shook his head and smiled down at the countertop. “It's just Harry,” he said.

" _Just Harry_ ," Louis said, shaking his head. "What did you do to earn that, then? William the Conqueror had to conquer bloody England before he got to claim that title. What makes you so just?"

“I’ve yet to kick you out of my shop,” Harry said. He smirked. “That feels like an accomplishment.”

“ _Please_ ,” Louis said. “You’re thrilled to have me back.” He hopped up onto the counter. Harry took a step back. Louis crossed his legs and leaned back on his arms. ”Homey place you’ve got here,” he said. He looked around and figured that it was true; most of the shelves were warm wood, and the displays of various instruments and sound equipments looked inviting, like he had stumbled into a musician’s living room.

“Make yourself at home,” Harry said belatedly, pulling a tall rickety stool up to the counter. He kept a sort of half-smirk on his face that looked like it might break at any moment into a genuine smile. Louis found it unsettling.

Louis leaned back so that he was lying flat on the counter, legs still crossed. The ceiling had a water stain on it. “What was that indie shit you had playing when I walked in?" he asked the water stain. "It sounded like a farm, except in music. I thought a horse was going to burst in and whinny at any moment."

"Oh, that--" Louis heard Harry scratch his head. "It was just. Um. Shit. You're right."

Louis raised his head a little bit to look at Harry. Was he _blushing_? Shit. "Wow, you're a terrible hipster,” Louis said. “I assumed you were going to launch into an explanation of who it was playing, three other bands I've never heard of who have influenced them, how the cello strings were made out of the pubic hair of baby calves and that's what gives it that nice full reverberation."

"It's not--it's nothing." Harry pulled at the end of his sleeve again, fidgeting with a bracelet for a moment before he added, "It's mine, actually." Then he squeezed his eyes shut and shook himself. “Yeah, I—I wasn't supposed to be playing it,” he said. "Supposed to play stuff we're promoting, you know? But no one was here and I just. Wanted to see how it would sound on the speakers.” He laughed a little and looked down at his scuffed boots. “But you're right,” he said, kicking at the counter lightly, “it was shit."

Louis sat up again and rolled his shoulders. “I was taking the piss, actually,” he said. He frowned until Harry looked up at him. "I was asking because I thought it was quite good."

Harry shook his head and covered his face with his hand. “Jesus,” he said. “Don’t just say that.”

“I generally don’t hand out compliments just for shits and giggles,” Louis said. “More of an insult-you-till-you-cry kind of guy, myself.”

Harry snorted, then shook his head again, hunching his shoulders.

“Verse was a bit thin, though, wasn't it?" Louis said. He put his chin in his hands and raised his eyebrows in Harry’s direction.

"Yeah, that's--" Harry sighed. "That's what I'm struggling with, actually. I like the chorus, I think--even if it's, you know, a bit. Mumford and Sons if Mumford and Sons were doing a parody of Mumford and Sons. On a farm."

"No, it was good," Louis agreed. "It was--it sounded, like.” He waved his hands vaguely “Happy." He shrugged. "You just lost a lot of momentum moving out of the chorus."

"Yeah, I--" Harry sat back down at the computer and clicked on a few things, bringing up a Garageband file and frowning at it. "I liked how it sounded kind of bare, in theory, but it's just--"

“Try some kind of harmony, maybe,” Louis said. He swung his legs over the side of the counter and kicked them a little as he leaned back on his arms. "You could try recording yourself and looping it? It sounded like you've got a bit of range."

"I--" Harry looked from the computer to Louis and back quickly. “Huh.” He took his hand off the mouse. “That might be a good idea.”

“There’s not much you can’t work your way out of with a four-part harmony.” Louis tried not to flinch at how much of a lie that was.

Harry stared at the computer with furrowed eyebrows. “Thank you,” he said after a minute. He looked back at Louis with earnest gratitude written all over his face. “I was thinking—but—“ He scratched his head. “That’s really good advice, I think."

"I _am_ a professional musician," Louis said with a dramatic sigh. He kicked his legs out one more time before crossing them again. "Everybody seems to forget."

Harry’s eyes widened and he shook his head. “I didn't mean to--"

Louis rolled his eyes. "I know, Harold." His phone buzzed in his pocket. He thought of his car still sitting outside with a duffel bag of clothes still in the backseat.

"Are you sure there's not something I can help you with?" Harry said. He bit his lip and glanced around the store.

Louis pulled his phone out of his pocket and read _band meeting started twenty minutes ago where are you????_ "Do you not want me here?" he said, without looking up.

"No," Harry said quickly. When Louis looked up, he was fiddling with his headband. "I mean. I just. Figured you'd have somewhere else to be?"

“Nope.” Louis popped the p. Harry’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Unless you really did tweet I was here,” Louis continued. “I mean. No army of teenage girls has appeared yet, so I guess you didn’t.” He glanced over his shoulder to the window where a few days ago a crowd of fans had gathered. “But they could be on their way.”

"I told you I didn’t.” Harry frowned. Louis shrugged. Like that meant anything. “I wouldn't tweet you were here," Harry continued. "If you didn't want me to. Like, even if I didn't mind having the shop mobbed again. That's just--that's a shitty thing to do."

"Well aren't you a noble sort,” Louis said. He wondered if it would be weird to ruffle the kid’s hair, given that he’d only just met him. Probably. "It being a shitty thing doesn't mean people don't do it.” Harry scratched his ear and tugged on one of his curls dangling close to it. Oh. “Of course, half the time it's full of shit,” Louis found himself babbling, looking away from him, “because everyone on Twitter lies."

"I don't think if I tweeted your location anyone would believe me, anyway,” Harry said. God, why was he always smiling? And when had Louis developed a _thing_ for dimples? "Why would they?"

"People will believe anything,” Louis said definitively.

"What if..." Harry pulled his phone out and leaned on the counter on his elbows, typing something and then turning the screen towards Louis. Louis had to turn his head to read it, and in doing so, steadied his hand on Harry’s shoulder. ( _Muscles_. Maybe he wasn’t so much of a kid. Louis was okay.)

It was a tweet that Harry had typed out. _Saw @Louis_Tomlinson just now. Said he was on his way to a farm._

“Do you _follow_ me?" Louis said, squeezing Harry’s shoulder before pulling away. Harry scrunched up his nose and didn’t say anything. “Fuck, I knew you were a fan!” Louis felt like his face was going to break open with his smile. “ _Love_ the boy fans,” he said smugly, leaning back on his arms again. “Especially the ones who insist they're straight. Like, if you were that straight, why would you insist so much?"

It was an invitation to say something (or maybe ask), but Harry didn’t take it. “Dunno,” he said. "I only followed you after you stormed into my shop last week and closed it down for two hours. Gotta keep tabs on you, right? Like, for business."

"Whatever," Louis said. "You just keep insisting,” he looked back down at Harry’s phone and read, “Harry Styles. Is that your name? Sounds like a porn name to me.”

Harry’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink. Louis smiled with satisfaction. “I never insisted I was straight,” Harry said quietly, pulling on his bracelets again.

Louis bit his lip. All right. “No," he said. "I guess you wouldn't." Harry’s smile faded. Louis let that sit in the air for a minute but when Harry didn’t say anything, he added, “That’s eyeliner, yeah?” He gestured at Harry’s face. “Unless you actually are a baby deer?”

Harry’s face twisted into a smile again quickly. ”Yeah,” he said. He closed his eyes lightly and turned his face towards Louis expectantly. "You like it?"

For a fraction of a second, Louis considered putting his hand along that incredibly defined jawbone and kissing the pretty shop boy. ”No,” he said. He shook his head even though Harry still had his eyes closed. "Definitely not." He was certain Harry could hear his smile even through his closed eyes, and he giggled in response.

Talking to this silly shop boy felt weirdly like flirting with someone you’d known your entire life, not someone you’d randomly run into twice in a week. Harry’s elbows on the counter were only an inch or so away from his knee, and he felt the urge to bump into him. Probably too much.

“I should actually get going, probably,” Louis said. Harry pulled back a little, his expression going a bit serious.

"Are you absolutely _sure_ there isn't anything I can do for you?" he said. Louis raised an eyebrow and Harry gestured out to the shop. "I mean. Um. Like, show you a kazoo. Or something.”

"I'm sure your kazoo is lovely, Harry Styles,” Louis said. He hopped down from the counter on the opposite side of Harry. "But I'm a very influential celebrity. I'm meant to be a role model for the children, not making them get out their kazoos for me."

“Heeeey.” Harry pointed his finger accusingly. “I’m eighteen,” he said. "I have, like, six A-levels. And a flat, with a cat, that I take care of myself."

Louis filed away for future consideration that Harry had chosen to take offense at being called a child, and not at the implication that he would take his dick out for a virtual stranger. Not that he was going to be thinking about Harry’s dick in the future or anything.

“Bloody hell, but they grow up fast, don't they?" Louis sighed heavily, speaking to an imaginary person just to his left. "One day they're just learning how to play the kazoo and next thing you know the kids are all grown up with cats of their own."

"You're not charming at all,” Harry said, in a tone that made it obvious it was a complete lie. "I have no idea why you have ten million followers.”

"Not everyone can handle me, I admit," Louis said. "Must be why I only have nine and a half mil." He leaned on the counter with his elbows for a second before straightening up. "I was leaving,” he reminded himself.

"Right." Harry stiffened for a moment, pushing a loose curl behind his ear. "Come back again,” he said, in a semi-professional tone.

Louis quirked an eyebrow. “So you can show me your kazoo?"

Harry narrowed his eyes but started grinning easily again. “It's just a thing people say." Harry looked down at the countertop and shook his head.“Stop talking about my kazoo."

“Hmm.” Louis looked Harry up and down and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Next time I'll just have to let it speak for itself."

Harry put his face in his hand. ”Leave now, please." He gestured towards the door with his other hand. “This is a serious business.”

"And I thought we had something special, Harold." Louis shoved his phone into his pocket and shook his head. "Guess I was just another multimillionaire internationally renowned popstar to you."

"I'm going to tweet that you're an absolute arse,” Harry said as Louis checked the time. Only half an hour after the band meeting was supposed to start. "Think people will believe that?"

"People will believe almost anything about my arse, I think." Louis put his phone away and turned halfway towards the door. Maybe he would go to the meeting after all. "Pretty sure I've read it launched a thousand ships."

Harry's eyes moved so fast that Louis wouldn't have been certain that he had, in fact, been checking out his arse were it not for the pink flush rising on his cheeks. "Everybody lies on Twitter," Harry said. "Or so I've heard."

Louis laughed heartily. “Take care, young Harold." He headed out the door and said over his shoulder, "Don't believe everything you read."

Louis was halfway out the door, so he wasn’t sure if he heard correctly, but he thought he heard a quiet, “Come back again,” before the door shut with a clatter of a bell behind him.

###

The thing about being an international pop star was that people had a tendency to overreact to your minor whims. Louis liked that part. He was good at pulling reactions out of people. That’s what Simon Cowell had liked about him in the first place. That’s why he had nine and a half million Twitter followers. People liked to watch him, and he delighted in watching them watch him. It was one of the only things that made days like this, days when he could barely speak to the three boys who he had called his best friends once without somebody shouting, almost worth it.

When he followed @Harry_Styles before he went to bed that night, it was mostly because he wanted to see how he’d react. The pretty hipster boy had actually tweeted “ _Saw @Louis_Tomlinson just now. Said he was on his way to a farm.”_ and, a bit later “ _The arse that launched a thousand ships…_ ” but hadn’t followed it up with any sort of context, and that was—it was cute, was all. Louis just wanted to see what would happen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis isn't shagging every guy he meets. Harry isn't a fanboy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eep sorry this update took so long! oddly enough, adult life responsibilities sometimes get in the way of fandom responsibilities. i hope none of you ever experience this travesty.
> 
> remember how liam said in the last chapter that is was 2012? yeah, he's chronologically challenged, it's actually 2013. silly liam.
> 
>  **warnings** for homophobic and racist slurs, cissexist language, and casual drug use
> 
>  **thanks** to aylin lionboylouis for telling me how twitter works, lmao, and being great in general, and maddles for betaing and spending half of her weeklong vacation working out the kinks in the plot for this with me. what a trooper. anything that sucks still is my fault. i can now say with certainty that this will end up being eight chapters and an epilogue, probably totaling around 90k. expect next update in 2-3 weeks. buckle in!
> 
> tumblr is now [socomicallygay](http://socomicallygay.tumblr.com/), come tell me you appreciate my new url

When Lottie first started having feelings for boys, Louis had advised her that if she could go more than thirty minutes without thinking about the boy over the course of the day, it wasn’t all the serious a crush. Then she’d asked him if that’s how he felt about Eleanor, and he’d smiled cryptically and said _I’m not fourteen, Lotts_.

Louis made it twenty-three minutes before he checked Harry’s Twitter the next morning. The last tweet had been an hour ago.

_@Harry_Styles: Woke up to three thousand followers... Wow. Hi?_

There was a picture attached, a close-up of Harry’s face. He was looking straight into the camera and his mouth was opened in an _o_ of surprise.

He really was a pretty thing, with his big green eyes and his face all sharp lines softened by loose curls and the shadow of a smile. A pretty _young_ thing. Louis wasn’t sure what his policy on sleeping with eighteen-year-olds was, now that he was officially a twenty-something, but he should probably shouldn’t base that decision on the color of a shopkeeper’s lips.

He waited another eighteen minutes, until he was just about to head out to the studio, before he responded.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: @Harry_Styles don’t look so shocked, mate, your face could get stuck like that_

He didn’t check his Twitter while he was driving. That would be ridiculous. He didn’t check it as soon as he got to the studio, either. He made it ten minutes into a discussion about cover art and two snippy comments about Liam’s hair before he found himself checking to see if Harry had replied.

Harry had sent him a direct message two minutes ago.

_@Harry_Styles: Bloody hell, I have like two hundred thousand teen girls followers now and I have no idea what to do with them?_

Louis bit his lip to keep from smiling.

“Louis, are you even listening to me?” Liam said.

“No,” Louis said. Niall snorted and elbowed him. Louis didn’t look up, just typed out his reply to Harry quickly. Liam made a sound like a dying bird and went back to talking about the pros and cons of mohawks.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: show them your kazoo_

Louis fiddled around on his phone for another minute or so before he refreshed his DMs with Harry. He had already replied.

_@Harry_Styles: is that what you usually do?_

Louis grinned down at the screen.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: you tell me, fanboy_

Almost immediately, Harry wrote back.

_@Harry_Styles: starting to think you're not in a band after all_

_@Harry_Styles: just a mildly intelligent computer only programmed to make dick jokes_

Just as quickly, Louis responded.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: my dick is very serious business, i'll have you know_

Harry didn't reply to that. Louis wasn’t miffed at all. He certainly didn’t check every half hour while the band listened to samples sent to them by half a dozen different recording artists and bickered with their management over which ones to use. After all, he wasn’t fourteen. When he got a _:p_ from Harry around teatime, he only smiled because he was relieved he hadn’t made Harry uncomfortable. Obviously.

 

###

 

On Friday night, Louis spent two hours in front of his mirror.

Back when the lads had been able to tease each other without the threat of someone’s eyeballs being torn out, they’d teased Louis about being the one who spent the longest getting ready in the morning--and taking even longer in the evening. _Tommo’s fabulousness does not come without a price_ , Liam used to say. _You’ll pay the price, all right,_ Louis had teased back. _No pain, no gain_.

This time, Louis wasn’t actually meticulously arranging his fringe. Well, he was, but only because every time he got a text from a former hook-up, asking if he was interested in meeting up, he stared at himself in the mirror and mussed his hair up with both hands.

Louis was never lacking weekend entertainment options, really. Even if he hadn’t actually spent _that_ much time in London since officially moving there after The X Factor, his social network was broad enough that he could always count on a dozen or so people attempting to include him in their plans. Since he didn’t give much of a shit about any of those people, he never had much of a problem choosing between the company of one acquaintance and another. It didn’t matter, was the thing.

After Wednesday, though. After blacking out and not knowing who to ask what had happened… Louis wasn’t sure that the functional anonymity of his “friends” was such a comfort, anymore.

There weren’t really any other options, though. Louis fixed his hair for the last time and got himself ready to say yes to whichever offer came next. In the meantime, he decided to check his messages from Harry.

_@Harry_Styles: what are people with actual social media followings supposed to tweet about on weekend nights?_

_@Harry_Styles: inquiring minds want to know_

God, when was the last time Louis had tweeted something that wasn't linked to a promotional deal? (The last time he had tweeted Harry, was the answer.)

_@Louis_Tomlinson: well, harold, to start with you have to have fascinating and mysterious plans_

Another text popped up, from Andy Shadow Lounge. Louis closed it.

_@Harry_Styles: does playing jumping monkeys with my sister count?_

_@Louis_Tomlinson: why on earth would you want to jump your sister’s monkey??_

Louis smirked. He refreshed the page three times in a row before Harry's reply came up.

_@Harry_Styles: you are a menace_

The next message was a picture of a plastic tree with crooked branches, little heaps of brightly-colored plastic monkeys, and two mostly-full glasses of red wine.

_@Harry_Styles: as you can see, we are wholesome family people_

Louis caught a glimpse of his own grin in the mirror. He was wearing a tight crimson top and black trousers that he knew pulled tight across his arse. He frowned.

Like hell he didn’t have options.

He ran his hands through his hair and shook it out, ruining the perfectly styled quiff for the seventh or eighth time.

“Fuck it,” he said to his reflection. _sorry have plans_ , he texted Andy Shadow Lounge.

He grabbed a beanie and a thick leather jacket on his way up to the attic. He tripped over a broken bong on his way to the window, and made a mental note to ask Jackie to clean up here. And maybe give her a bonus for it.

As he clambered out onto the top of the garage, he realized he wasn’t even sure if the rope ladder was still there. He and Zayn hadn’t climbed onto the roof to smoke for almost a year. There was a lot of rain in London. It might have rotted away.

But there it was, the thick rope feeling as sturdy as ever, if a bit faded from its original neon orange. Louis tested his weight on the lowest rung carefully.

He knew what the headlines would say if he broke his neck. Several reporters would probably say they had seen something like this coming all along. Whatever. Louis hitched himself up onto the ladder and pulled himself onto the roof. It didn’t break.

The roof was cold but dry, the dark grey shingles like ice but mercifully not as slippery. Louis steadied himself against the chimney and sat down cross-legged. He shivered and pulled the beanie down farther over his ears. He looked out onto the horizon. 

The sky was a dark, unrelenting grey. Although he was on the side of the roof facing away from the street, Louis felt exposed. Coming up here was a silly idea, probably. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting. It’d never been anything but, hadn’t it?

Even though the cold nearly burned his hands, he texted Zayn.

_To: Zayn Motherfucalik_

_remember that week last spring where we did nothing but smoke on the roof of my house_

_To: Zayn Motherfucalik_

_Niall wanted to come up but he almost shat himself just getting onto the window_

_To: Zayn Motherfucalik_

_Liam told us we were fucking idiots and we’d fall to our deaths… look how far he’s come ha_

_To: Zayn Motherfucalik_

_we could have done but you said we were rock stars so we would never truly die_

Two checkmarks appeared next to all his texts.

_To: Zayn Motherfucalik_

_I miss that_

Louis tugged his knees up to his chin under his thick coat and waited for a few minutes for a reply. He amused himself puffing hot air from his mouth so that it steamed, pretending it was smoke circles.

When he checked his phone again, Zayn hadn’t replied to him. Just Andy Shadow Lounge with a sad emoji and a _well, if your plans change_ … Louis felt like throwing his phone down the chimney.

Instead, he opened Twitter.

 _@Louis_Tomlinson_ : _london’s shite. what’s the point of living somewhere you can’t see the stars?_

He didn’t have to wait long for a reply.

_@Harry_Styles: london’s got different kinds of stars, i think_

Louis pulled the sleeves of his jacket over his hands and leaned back against the chimney.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: how are the monkeys?_

_@Harry_Styles: I’m winning_

_@Louis_Tomlinson: does that mean your monkey is being jumped or vice versa?_

_@Harry_Styles: my monkeys are jumping the farthest. or, like, the best._

_@Harry_Styles: does everything have to be innuendo with you?_

Not everything  _had_  to be innuendo, Louis thought. It was just so  _easy_ to make it innuendo. Especially with Harry. He tried not to think about why that was.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: sorry for making a mess upon your innocence_

_@Harry_Styles: are you quoting your own song lyrics at me…? ! jesus I thought I was an embarrassing drunk_

It was cold as fuck on the roof, really, but Louis spent another two hours leaning against the chimney, thinking of the slow burn of joints and cigarettes, cheeks flushed red with wine and warmth.

 

###

 

A little past two the next day, Zayn appeared on Louis’s doorstep. When Louis came to the door, Zayn looked almost surprised to see him there.

“Hey.” Zayn started taking something out of his pocket, then stopped, looking over his shoulder. “Smoke with me,” he said as he turned back to Louis.

Louis blinked. “All right,” he said after a minute. When was the last time Zayn had shown up to his house, let alone unannounced? Last spring? Before that?

Zayn raised an eyebrow. “Are you gonna let me in?” he said.

“How’d you know I’d be home?” Louis didn’t move from the doorway.

“Didn’t.” Zayn pulled a lighter out of his pocket and flipped it on and off a few times. “I came by last night, actually.”

“Oh.” The wind picked up. Louis shivered and crossed his arms over his chest. “I wasn’t—you didn’t text.”

Zayn shrugged. “Figured you’d be busy, if you were out.”

 _I wasn’t getting trashed_ , Louis almost protested. _I fucking wasn’t_. Zayn wasn’t Liam; he’d probably believe him. But he also wouldn’t care, because he wasn’t Liam, and he didn’t act like if Louis would just stop going to gay clubs, they’d be okay.

“Come in,” Louis said. He took a step backwards to let Zayn in.

“Cheers.” Zayn stepped inside and stood in the foyer while Louis shut the door behind him.

“What’ve you got?” Louis said. He kept his shoulders hunched and his arms crossed over his chest while Zayn toed off his boots. He didn’t take off his jacket.

“Nothing special.” He pulled a bag out of his pocket and tossed it to Louis. “Not like you’ve been having lately, probably.”

Louis caught the bag. There were a few tightly rolled joints inside. Louis had been the one who taught Zayn how to roll. Zayn stood still, as if waiting for Louis to lead them out of the foyer. “Haven’t done much of anything, lately,” Louis muttered. He wandered into the kitchen.

“Oh.” Zayn followed a few steps behind Louis.

Louis picked up his tea, long since gone cold, and dumped it in the sink. “I wish people would stop fucking assuming things about my life,” he said into the drain. He looked back at Zayn, who was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed. “Sorry, mate,” he added in a mumble.

Zayn was silent. “A lot of people wish you’d actually tell us things about your life,” he said after a moment, with a bit more bitterness than Louis could ever remember hearing from him. “Not sorry, mate.”

Louis didn’t argue. He rolled his neck (still cricked from falling asleep on the roof) and picked up the weed. “Balcony,” he said, gesturing out of the kitchen. “Don’t want to smoke in here.”

A year ago, Zayn would have flicked him between the eyes and said, _we’ll freeze our bloody balls off_. Now, he shrugged. “Your call,” he said.

They shuffled onto the balcony and sat on the patio chairs. Louis tucked his legs underneath him and tossed the joints onto the table between them.

“What’s up, Zayn?”

Zayn didn’t flinch at the sudden sharpness in Louis’s tone. “Feel like I ought to ask you that,” he replied coolly.

“Well,” Louis said, giving him a broad wave, “I’m right here.”

“Are you, though?” 

Fuck Zayn and his wise, cryptic shit. “You caught me,” Louis said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m a hologram. Louis’s actually off in Fiji.”

“You don’t have to make a joke out of everything, man,” Zayn said back. He kept his eyes on Louis, like he was studying him. Like a piece of art. Or a trainwreck, more like.

“And you don’t have to make a cryptic statement out of everything, man,” Louis said, leaning back into the chair and crossing his arms, “but here we are.”

“Why did you text me last night?” Zayn said. Louis opened his mouth, then closed it again. Zayn leaned forward in his chair. “That clear enough for you?”

Apparently Louis couldn’t even casually text his bandmates without it being a cause for concern now. He sighed. “I was on the roof,” he said. Casually. “I was just—I was on the roof and I thought of you, is all.” He rubbed his cheek, imaging he could still feel the imprint of the shingles. “Does everything need to be a _thing_ now?”

“Liam thinks you’re done with us,” Zayn said. “With the band.” Louis let out a _humph_. Zayn waited a minute before he continued, “Is he wrong?”

Louis looked out over his yard into his neighbor’s house, where a pap had once camped out and taken photos of him until Louis got a court order against him. “I didn’t sign up for this, Zayn,” Louis said. He pulled his jumper down over his knees.

“None of us did.” Zayn spoke softly, truthfully. Louis couldn’t look at him.

“It’s different.” Louis shook his head and pulled at a loose thread in his jumper. “It’s different for me.”

“Is it?” Zayn said with a strained voice.

“I don’t—“ Louis closed his eyes and remembered the last time they’d all been papped together, leaving LAX. _Faggot_ , a pap had called him. _Fucking paki_ , he’d said to Zayn. “No,” Louis said. “Maybe not so much.” He paused. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Zayn said. “Just.” He kicked at the table where the joints laid. “Just. Fuck, Louis, are you in or out?”

Louis’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Probably someone asking something of him. He sighed. “I’m in,” he said. “I just… don’t know what I’m in.”

“ _None_ of us do.” Zayn leaned forward. “That’s why we need to stick _together_.”

Part of Louis wanted to ask if he’d had this conversation with Liam. A bigger part of him was afraid of what Liam might have said.

“Do you remember when we lost?” Louis said. He pulled his knees up to his chest under his jumper and crossed his arms across his chest underneath it, making himself a ball of body heat. “When we lost X Factor and they asked us if we were gonna stick together.” He almost let out a laugh. “We didn’t even think about it, we just said yes.”

“‘Course,” Zayn said. He leaned forward a little farther, rubbing his temples. “‘Course I remember.”

Louis shrugged as best he could while curled into a ball in his jumper. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe we should have thought about it.”

“Maybe we should _stop_ thinking about it,” Zayn said. He threw his hands up. Louis tucked his chin against his chest. “Fuck, we’ve got. What? Three usable tracks recorded for an album we need to have done in _two_ _months_.”

“That’s not my fault,” Louis insisted. His voice stayed low even as Zayn’s rose.

“I’m not saying it is!” Zayn stood up like he was going to start ranting wildly “ _Shit_ , Lou, I meant—“ He sighed and sat down again. “I mean.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “We can still _do_ this, if everybody just stops acting like we _can’t_.”

“It’s not that _easy_ , though,” Louis said. He pulled his arms out of his jumper cocoon and rubbed his temples. “I’ve written _seven_ songs,” he said. “Liam vetoed all of them and _you_ didn’t fight him on it, did you?”

“Not because they’re _bad_ ,” Zayn said. “It’s just.” He paused. “Not quite the sound we’re looking for.” Louis snorted and Zayn continued quickly, “If you hadn’t acted like _tweaking_ bits of your work was some kind of affront to your honor—“

Something in Louis snapped. He planted his feet on the ground and crossed his arms. “Why are you here, then?” he said sharply. “To tell me how much I’ve fucked everything up? We’re pop royalty, Zayn, you can _hire_ people to do that sort of thing now.”

“I’m here to tell you to get _over_ it,” Zayn snapped, “because every other option is _shit_.”

“Why do _I_ have to get over it?” Louis tensed his shoulders again and leaned back in the chair, looking out over the balcony. “Why can’t _Liam_ get over his fucking homophobia, why can’t _Niall_ get over his inability to take a fucking _side_ , why can’t _you_ just—“ _Just give up_. Louis couldn’t quite bring himself to say it.

“Because you’re better at this,” Zayn said, gesticulating like Louis had never seen him do before, “you’re better at this than all of us, Lou, is that what you want to hear? Because yeah, we don’t even know what the band _is_ without you. Christ.”

Louis chewed on his lip and stared insistently at the bleak January sun. “You’re not wrong,” he said.

“Can you just _try_ ,” Zayn said. He sounded like he had reached the end of his rope. “What if we all just _tried_?”

“I’ve _been_ —“

“Again, then,” Zayn said. “Can we try again?”

Louis paused, then finally looked back at Zayn. He was flicking his lighter on and off again. Louis shook his head. “ _I’m_ not going to be the one—“

“Liam’s already said he wants to try.”

“Oh.” Louis shoulder’s sunk. “ _Liam’s_ already said, so.” Louis crossed his legs and put them on the table. “Are you, like, his messenger now, then?” he said. “Could’ve hired one of those professional services. At least the boys are usually cute. No offense.”

“ _Louis_.” Zayn shook his head and mouthed like there was something on the tip of his tongue, but nothing came out. He put his head in his hands.

Louis looked down at the joints on the table. Zayn hadn’t come by since last spring, but Zayn was here. Zayn was trying.

“Yeah,” Louis said eventually. His voice sounded hoarse. He swallowed. “Yeah,” he said again, “all right. We can try.”

Zayn lifted his head. He looked like he might have been crying. Louis didn’t want to look too hard. “Yeah?” he said, studying Louis carefully.

Louis huffed and rolled his eyes. “That’s what I said, right?”

“Good.” A smile broke over Zayn’s face. “Yeah. Good.” When Louis didn’t protest, he started smiling wider. “So let’s fucking smoke, yeah?” he said. He picked up the baggie and pulled out a joint, raising his eyebrows. Louis snorted.

“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s fucking smoke.”

 

###

 

Louis’s crush wasn’t serious. He’d been smoking with Zayn for almost an hour before he checked to see if Harry had sent him any messages.

_@Harry_Styles: I’ve got a hundred people asking me how I know you…_

_@Harry_Styles: some of them think we used to be in a band together_

_@Harry_Styles: is louis tomlinson a fake identity?  are you really andy plum from holmes chapel? never knew what happened to him when he moved away_

“Who’s that?”

Louis realized he had totally stopped paying attention to Zayn as he spoke up. “Oh,” Louis said. He frowned. He felt like he’d been caught wanking or something. “’S just…” Just a boy. A boy with curly, curly hair and pink, pink lips. Louis shrugged and shoved his phone into his pocket. “No one.”

Zayn raised an eyebrow and waited.

“Some indie kid,” Louis said. He stared at the blunt in Zayn’s hand. “Works in the music shop Niall and I got mobbed in. I, uh.” Dimples. Dimples and curls and lips. “Music. His music. It was pretty good.”

“Is that that, like, random guy you tweeted, then?” Zayn said. “We were wondering.”

 _We_ meant Liam, obviously. Louis rolled his eyes. “Well,” he said with a huff, “clearly he wasn’t random, as I’ve just told you how I met him.”

Zayn shrugged. “Cool.” He paused, looked out at the dying tree in Louis’s back yard for a moment, then said, “I think—“ He broke off, brow furrowing in concentration. “That’s great, Lou,” he said eventually. “I think that’s great.”

Louis frowned, then grabbed the joint from Zayn’s hand. “We’re not shagging,” he said.

Zayn paused, like he was waiting for Louis to say more, then shrugged again. “All right.”

Louis took a long drag then pressed the joint back into Zayn’s hands. “I’m not shagging every guy I meet, you know.”

“I know.” Zayn fidgeted with the joint between his fingers, then looked up to meet Louis’s eyes. “Lou, I _know_ that,” he said.

Louis exhaled heavily and then took the joint from Zayn again before he had a chance to smoke it. “Thanks, man,” he said. He took a long, deep drag, and could feel his irritation seeping out of him with the smoke curling from the corners of his mouth. “Y’know, for the weed.”

Zayn smiled, bright and easy. “Thanks for smoking it.”

Louis handed the joint back to Zayn and sent a quick reply to Harry before turning his phone off and lighting another joint, hoping Zayn wouldn’t notice him blush. _i can be whoever you want me to be, love._

 

###

 

On Monday, Louis and Liam finally managed to agree on two tracks for the album. It was all mindless pop, the kind of sound they were trying to get away from, but when Louis and Liam agreed that they sounded all right, Zayn and Niall quickly got on board. One of the rich interns said _finally_ and offered to take the whole tech team out for drinks. Louis got him fired. It was a good day.

In the evening, Harry tweeted him.

 _@Harry_Styles_ : _In case you were wondering… @Louis_Tomlinson and I were never in a band together. He’s actually my long-lost twin._

Louis wasn’t drunk enough to regret it when he tweeted back.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: @Harry_Styles you wish_

 

###

 

On Wednesday, Louis spent twenty minutes taking pictures with fans outside the studio before he went home. A bird nearly shat on him as he was getting into his car.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: a bird nearly shat on me today_

_@Harry_Styles: can you blame it? it just met louis tomlinson_

When Louis got home, he waited nineteen minutes before replying.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: you are way too nice for anyone’s good_

Harry wrote back in five.

_@Harry_Styles: oops :)))_

 

###

 

All things considered, it was a good week. Progress on the album moved at a snail’s pace, but it moved. Louis and Liam weren’t speaking, but that was a considerable improvement over how they’d been sniping at each other for months. On Friday, Louis felt like he might enjoy getting drunk with people he was actually friends with, for a change. Which is how he found himself drinking Guinness in a pub full of Irish expats watching Ireland v Italy game on Friday night, Niall shouting himself red in the face next to him.

Louis had gone to the loo after Italy’s second goal to wait for his ears to stop ringing. When he came back, he found somebody in his seat.

“Louis!” Niall said, smiling and sloppy drunk as he clapped the newcomer on the shoulder. “This is Nick Grimshaw, he’s—“

“I know who he is, Niall,” Louis said. He leaned on the table across from them with his elbows. “I was there when he interviewed us as well.” Not to mention afterwards, when he’d blown Nick in the toilets. “Hi, Nick.”

“Hello, popstar.” Nick smirked as he checked Louis out, slowly enough for Louis to roll his eyes. “Long time no see.”

“Got to keep up the air of mystery.” Louis picked up his beer from where it was sitting in front of Nick and kept eye contact with him as he chugged it down, raising his eyebrows.

Nick smirked. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?” he said, thumbing at the side of his glass.

Louis put down his drink and smirked back. “How have you been, Nick?”

“Same old, you know.” He elbowed Niall, whose attention had been drawn mostly back to the game. “I was just telling Niall here, I’m on my way out, actually.” Niall turned back to them for a moment, but looked away again when Louis and Nick didn’t take their eyes off each other. “Heading out with some friends,” Nick continued. “Would you like to come along, Tomlinson? I have a feeling where we’re going might be right up your alley.”

Louis didn’t even think before answering. “Sure.” He glanced back at the telly. The match was coming to an end. Dispirited Ireland supporters were already leaving the pub. “Why don’t you let me finish up this drink with Niall and then I’ll find you?”

“Fair enough.” Nick shrugged and got up. “I’ll leave you to it. See you in a bit.”

“In a bit,” Louis said. Nick’s hand brushed Louis’s hip as he passed him by, and he winked. Louis rolled his eyes and pushed his hand away.

Niall didn’t say anything as Louis slid back into the booth next to him. There were a lot of ways this night could have gone worse, Louis wanted to say. Could still go worse. Nick was a good guy, even if he did tend to end up in the tabloids a bit. If Louis ended up going home with Nick, it probably wouldn’t be because there was no better option. At least, not _just_ because. Whatever, he didn’t owe an explanation to Niall, anyway.

Louis pulled out his phone and scrolled through his WhatsApp messages as he sipped at what was left of his drink. As always, a couple people whose names he barely recognized asked him if he wanted to meet up. He didn’t respond to any of them. Before he put away his phone, though, he opened up Twitter. It had become a habit, throughout the week. The app was still on his and Harry’s DMs. He refreshed the page but Harry hadn’t sent him anything since that afternoon, when they’d been discussing Ireland’s chances. Harry had been optimistic. Louis hadn’t even known who he was supporting. 

He refreshed Harry’s profile before closing the app. Just, like. In case.

The first tweet had been posted a few minutes ago. _Another long, slow night…_ Louis opened up the picture attached and recognized the shop where Harry worked, empty and illuminated by harsh neon lights. It looked significantly less cozy than Louis remembered it. Maybe it was a filter Harry added.

It was ridiculous, but Louis wanted to know.

“Listen,” he said to Niall. He got up and pulled his jacket off the coat rack. “I’m, uh. I’m going to go.”

“Yeah, with Nick, you said.” Niall looked between Louis and the crowd anxiously for a moment before downing the last of his Guinness and saying, “Hey, d’you think—?”

“Not with Nick,” Louis said. “I’m just. Going.” He threw a tenner down on the table. “If you see him tell him I’m sorry, yeah?”

“Sure, Tommo.” Niall frowned. “Where are you—?”

“See you tomorrow,” Louis said, not catching Niall’s eye as he made his way out. There were worse ways this night could have ended up than clubbing with Nick Grimshaw. He didn’t want to think too much about whether or not this was one of them.

 

###

 

Louis realized when he got into the cab that he didn’t know the address he was going to. Or that the cabbie wouldn’t kidnap and hold him for ransom. Paul had gone through a hundred different horrible ways cab rides could go wrong with them before Louis had said, _we get it, all right, we’ll call a fucking private car, it’s not that much of a burden, honestly._

The other boys had laughed, all of them. Louis’s fingers itched as he looked up the address of the music shop. It felt urgent that he get there as soon as possible, though he couldn’t quite say why. Maybe to find a reason he was going. He threw a fistful of money, way too much, at the cabbie as soon as they got near the shop (illuminated, yes, with garishly bright neon lighting) and didn’t let himself think about what he was going to say before he stormed in.

“Hello there, sunshine,” Louis said before the bell on the door had even stopped clanging. He shoved his hands in his pockets. “What’s keeping you inside on a lovely day like this?”

Harry was sitting behind the counter, in an almost identical position to the one Louis had first found him in, only this time he wasn’t hunched over a pile of guitar picks, but a guitar. If he was surprised at all by Louis’s intrusion, his face didn’t show it. “Well,” he said, smiling easily. He didn’t get up, just continued strumming a tune Louis didn’t recognize on the guitar. “For one thing, it’s nighttime.”

“Exactly!” Louis said. He wondered if he sounded as frantic as he felt. He wandered over to the piano display in the window and sat on the bench, his hands twitching in his pockets. “Friday night! Fit young lad like you should be out on the lash, Harold.” He really, really hoped he sounded frantic, and not… well. Harry smiled like he knew something Louis didn’t and Louis felt more nervous than he had since the X Factor. Had Louis just called him fit? God, he sounded like a pervert. Harry was eighteen.

“I’m...” Harry put the guitar down and stood, leaning against the counter with his chin cupped in his hands. “Well. The shop’s open until ten, you know. We often get a few, uh, drunken impulse shoppers, usually.” Harry grinned, like it didn’t mean anything that Louis had sought him out in person for the second time in a week.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything.

“Makes sense,” Louis said, with a shrug. He kicked his feet out and let them hit the piano with a thud. “I mean, here I am.”

“Being impulsive?” Harry said. He drummed his fingers along the countertop idly.

Louis took his hands out of his pockets and scratched the back of his head. “Looks like.” He cocked an eyebrow in Harry’s direction and Harry dimpled at him. Was dimple a verb? Louis thought. It should be a verb.

“Can I show you anything?” Harry said. He dimpled again.

“Nah.” Louis ran his hand along the wood of the fallboard. It was painted a garish sort of blue and the wood was splintery. The piano probably cost less than than Louis’s shoes.

“Okay,” Harry said. He scratched his head. “I was just, you know…” He watched Louis tap out a phantom tune before Louis turned to him, then shook himself.  “Tinkering with something,” Harry said. “It’s usually pretty quiet, so I was just working on… stuff.” He bit his lip, looking like he thought Louis might disapprove. “Covers, mostly.”

“Oh.” Louis frowned. “You were working.” He said it like it meant he should leave. He wondered if he would, if Harry agreed.

“No,” Harry said quickly. Then he looked back at the guitar and said, “Well, I mean. Technically. This is where I work.” He gestured around the store. “But I wouldn’t mind company?” Fucking _dimples_.

“All right.” Louis turned away from the piano and leaned back on the fallboard with his elbows. “Just… go back to whatever you were doing, then.”

Harry frowned. “I was sitting hunched over my guitar,” Harry said. “You want me to keep doing that?” Like that was the weirdest thing about Louis showing up at his place of work in the middle of the night.

“Basically.” Louis winced as he felt a splinter prick at his elbow, but he didn’t check to see if it had stuck him. “Whatever you were playing was nice.”

“Thanks.” Harry picked up the guitar and stared back at Louis for a moment. Louis shifted and winced again as his elbow caught another splinter. “It’s, um. Ani DiFranco.”

“Whatever.” Louis flipped back around, figuring facing Harry might actually be less perilous than continuing to subject his arms to the splintery piano menace. “Just. Act like I’m not here.”

“All right.” Harry didn’t sit back down on the chair. Instead, he clambered up onto the counter gracelessly and placed the body of the guitar between his crossed legs.

Louis quickly realized that it was a mistake to face Harry as he played, because it was almost impossible to look away. Harry’s face contorted in concentration as he picked out melodies, his tongue poking through his teeth. His hair wasn’t held back by a scarf like the other times Louis had seen him; instead, it fell in dense ringlets around his face, and really, how was anyone even _allowed_ to be that fucking _pretty_ and _talented_ at the same time. After a song and a half of outright gawking at him, Harry glanced up at him and… dimpled.

Eighteen.

Louis got up off the piano bench and, unsure of what else to do, flopped onto the floor. It was lightly carpeted. Not too uncomfortable. Harry didn’t stop playing as Louis stared at the ceiling contemplating when he had become such a lecher.

Harry finished running through a slowed-down version of a Bowie song Louis couldn’t remember the name of. Then, he strummed idly for a minute and fiddled with the tuners. “All right?” he asked, only glancing at Louis for a second.

Louis put his hands behind his head and closed his eyes. “Fantastic,” he said. “Play on.”

Harry played through a few more songs Louis didn’t recognize. A few times, Harry started singing a soft melody over the guitar. If there were any words to it, Louis didn’t pick up on them, but he felt like he knew what the songs were about anyway, even if he couldn’t quite put it into words.

“Was that yours?” Louis asked without shifting from his spot on the floor as Harry ran through a chord progression for the third time in a row.

“Yeah.” Harry sighed and ran through it again, at half-time. “Sounds better in my head, I think.”

It sounded great, but Louis didn’t say so. Instead, he sat up from his place on the ground, wincing at how his bones cracked, and leaned against the leg of the old piano. “When did you start playing?” he asked.

“I was sixteen,” Harry said. He paused his strumming and started picking out scales. “Basically I picked it up because I was bored, but it ended up being the best decision of my life.” He played one last chord and then put his pick down as the sound reverberated through the shop. “You play anything?” he asked.

“Not really.” Louis rolled his shoulder. “A bit of piano. But I’m shite, can’t play for anything.”

“You write, though,” Harry said. Louis snorted and rolled his eyes. “Shut up, you—“ Harry went a bit red in the face as he set the guitar down on the counter next to him. “You’ve got a bunch of writing credits from the second album, haven’t you?”

Louis laughed out loud. “God, are you a stalker?”

“Just a fanboy,” Harry said. He took what Louis had thought was a bracelet off his wrist and pulled his hair back into a little ponytail that sat high on his head. “Though maybe I should pick up stalking. Might be good at it, if all my prey keeps coming to me.”

“You look completely ridiculous,” Louis said without thinking. Harry just smiled back at him. Eighteen-year-old menace. Louis crossed his legs and hummed the minor chord progression Harry had been playing. “It’s not quite the same as what you do,” he said. He leaned back more against the piano leg. “I just. Listen. And… feel things out.”

“That’s all there is to writing, I think.” Harry leaned back on his arms and kicked his feet out.

“It’s a different thing, though,” Louis said. He examined his fingernails and tried to sound unaffected by Harry’s attention on him. “What you’re working on, like, it’s. More soulful. Our stuff is just—sounds. Beats, melodies.”

“I love your stuff, though,” Harry said. He started humming the chorus of _What Makes You Beautiful_ and Louis groaned, throwing a hand over his face dramatically. Harry’s laugh rang loudly through the shop. “It’s not trying to be anything it isn’t,” he continued. “It’s simple. It’s just… out there.”

“Well, thank you, Harold. That was beautiful,” Louis deadpanned. He took his hand off his face and smirked. “Think I might shed a tear.”

“Heyyyy.” Harry said. He pointed a finger at Louis and scowled. “You’re a bigger hipster than I am if you don’t like One Direction’s music. _Fact_.”

Louis shook his head and sighed in exasperation. “You’re so much of a hipster, you like us _ironically_.” He threw up his hands. “What a feat!”

Harry huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. It was a weirdly childish gesture, given how both of his flannel shirts (freak) were unbuttoned almost to his stomach. “Irony is so mainstream.”

Louis fell halfway over to the ground laughing. “Oh _Christ_.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “I think you just broke some kind of hipster law of nature. Now you’ve ascended and will become their god.”

“You are so cynical,” Harry scolded, but he looked satisfied. And dimpley. Louis had trouble catching his breath. “You really don’t think I like your music?” Harry said, picking up his guitar.

Louis held a hand to his tummy as he steadied his breathing again. “I really think,” he said slowly, “that you’re very strange.”

Harry sniffed, rapped out a beat on the body of the guitar, and then started playing out the rhythm Louis was fairly sure would follow him to his grave.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Louis groaned, “are you _really_ —“

“ _Baby, you light up my world like nobody else_ ,” Harry sang out, and _shit_ if he wasn’t actually good, if Louis wasn’t grinning in spite of himself as he covered his face with his hands, “ _the way that you flip your hair makes me_ —“

That was when the bell over the door rang out loudly.

“Hello!” Harry said. He clapped his hand over the guitar strings so the sound stopped abruptly. He looked incredibly frazzled. Louis stuffed his fist in his mouth to keep from howling with laughter as several people shuffled into the front door. “Can I help you?”

Louis strongly considered the possibility of rolling around on the floor laughing until these people were on their way. It might be practical. Keep him from being recognized. On the other hand, though, one of the people who had just walked in said, “I want to buy a harmonica,” and… that could be interesting. He rolled up, leaning back on his hands to get a better look at the three people who had come into the shop.

There were two burly boys in their late teens wearing trackies and tight white t-shirts, and a girl wearing a band shirt, a short jean skirt and a bored expression. None of them were wearing jackets, even though it was nearly freezing outside and not much better in the shop. Louis hadn’t taken off his peacoat and Harry was pulling on a thick lavender jumper over his (ridiculous, fucking absurd) flannel shirts. Louis wasn’t sure that weather-inappropriate dress was a good enough reason to decide not to like someone, but then again, he’d never needed a reason before (and if he did, well… the smell of vodka was coming off them in waves, almost).

Harry pulled a beanie over his head (the boys still hadn’t closed the shop door) and scuttled off towards the shelves. The boy closest to Louis, a nearly bald one wearing a snapback, looked down at him sitting cross-legged on the floor. Louis raised an eyebrow. The boy didn’t say anything.

“Here we are,” Harry said. He closed the shop door and held out a box full of what Louis now recognized as harmonicas. “So, if you’re just starting out, I’d recommend—“

“Was that a One Direction song you were playing just now?” the girl asked. Her eyes had sparked with interest when she took a closer look at Harry.

“Yeah,” he said. He smiled at her. “You like them?” Louis looked down at a small stain on the floor and ground his teeth.

Jean Skirt laughed. “‘Course not, I’m not twelve.” She shifted her weight and cocked her head slightly to the side. “Little sis loves ‘em, though. That’s so cute, that you know that song.” She took a step closer to Harry. Harry glanced at Louis and dimpled. Louis didn’t smile back.

“ _Wand Erection_ ,” Aspiring Harmonicist grumbled loudly. Snapback snickered. Aspiring Harmonicist looked pleased with himself. “Sounds pretty gay to me.”

“Totally,” Louis added solemnly, without getting up off the floor. Aspiring Harmonicist jumped a little when he noticed him there. “One-hundred-percent homosexual.”

There was a fraction of a second when Louis worried Jean Skirt might recognize him, but she only glanced at him before looking back at Harry and twirling her hair.

“The gayest,” Snapback added with a laugh.

“Haven’t seen a pussy since they popped out of one as a babe,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. Snapback elbowed him and snickered. Louis rolled his eyes.

“You were asking about a harmonica?” Harry said. His voice was stained, and he was biting at the corner of his lip. A long chunk of hair had fallen awkwardly across his forehead. Louis’s fingers itched to fix it.

“Yeah, we’re starting a band,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. “So, like, we need instruments.”

“A boy band?” Louis said. He got up off the floor and sat on the piano bench. “Isn’t that… you know, kind of gay?”

Harry coughed and examined his nails. Louis wondered if Jean Skirt had noticed the traces of varnish on them. He hoped so. Aspiring Harmonicist and Snapback were frowning at each other.

“It’s more of a manly band,” Snapback said. Aspiring Harmonicist nodded to himself and shuffled his feet.

“Oy,” Jean Skirt snapped. She angled her body away from Harry, finally, as she frowned at the lads. “It is _not_ a manly band if I’m in it.”

“I see,” Louis said. He wondered how drunk they were. Probably quite a bit. Jean Skirt was swaying a little in her heels. “Much more heterosexual. Got it.” He nodded curtly.

“Do you play anything?” Harry said to Jean Skirt kindly. Aspiring Harmonicist answered for her.

“Annie’s gonna be on drums,” he said. “I’m gonna be the lead singer.” He grinned proudly.

“I thought _I_ was the lead singer,” Snapback said. Neither of his friends paid any attention to him.

“Can’t I be, like, the backup singer?” Jean Skirt mumbled.

“Nah, you’re too important, Annie-bean!” Aspiring Harmonicist said. “We’ll find some hot chicks to be our back-up singers.”

Jean Skirt squinted at him in disbelief. “Are you _drunk_ or something?”

“ _You’re_ drunk,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. He crossed his arms and pouted. Louis wondered how they would fare on the X Factor. He almost pulled out his phone to text the thought to Niall, or even Zayn, but that would involve explaining where he was, which… no.

“All right,” Harry said loudly, clapping his hands together. “Do you need me to hook you up with a drum set, Annie?”

“Ah…” Jean Skirt scratched the back of her head. “Those are a bit pricey, aren’t they, lads?”

“You could just get a set of bongos,” Louis suggested, jerking his head towards the display. Aspiring Harmonicist jumped again as he was reminded he was there. “But, you know…” Louis lowered his voice dramatically. “Might be kind of gay.”

“Let me see.” Jean Skirt picked up a set of bongos from the top of a display and rapped on them with her knuckles. Harry winced. Louis smirked. “What d’you think, then?” Snapback said, turning to the others.

“There’s two of them,” Snapback said. “Like boobs. Boobs aren’t gay.”

“I’m a _girl_ , idiot,” Jean Skirt said. “Boobs are totally gay for me.” She drummed out the first few beats of _What Makes You Beautiful_ and smiled at Harry. He was tugging his beanie down farther over his ears, but he grinned back. Louis scowled.

“That’s _hot_ , though,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. He sounded like he was daydreaming.

Snapback shook his head. “That’s like, _lesbian_ stuff,” he said. “Lesbians aren’t gay.”

Jean Skirt rolled her eyes. Harry’s eyebrows looked like they might fall off his face. Louis giggled audibly, but only Snapback gave him a second glance. “Well,” Harry said. If the trio weren’t so drunk, they probably would have noticed he sounded pissed. “So, that’s sorted. About that harmonica—”

“Mikey’s not very talented,” Jean Skirt said, looking at Aspiring Harmonicist. “He’s kind of our weakest link.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Harry said kindly. Louis rolled his eyes.

“It bloody well isn’t!” Aspiring Harmonicist said. His face was turning red. “I’m the lead bloody singer!”

“I’m no good with my hands,” Snapback said. “ _I_ should be the lead singer.”

“Might be a bit hard to sing and play harmonica at the same time,” Louis said. Harry immediately dimpled and avoided eye contact with him.

“Yeah, well, what would _you_ know?” Aspiring Harmonicist said. He kicked the floor angrily. “Get your own band, man.”

“I’ll think about that,” Louis said. He drummed along the fallboard. Harry made eye contact with him and ducked his face down for a minute.

“Harmonica isn’t hard,” Harry said. “You could make it work for you.”

“What about a tambourine?” Snapback said suddenly. He wandered to the same shelf Louis had been drawn to the first time he had entered the shop, then waved a tambourine in Aspiring Harmonicist’s direction.

“ _That’s_ a little fucking gay, mate,” Jean Skirt said. She still had the bongos under her arms, and she rapped her knuckles on them decisively. Snapback looked down at the tambourine and frowned before putting it back.

“I like harmonica, I think,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. “It’s like. We could we like one of those American bands, with the hats, and the… standing-in-tall-grass, like.” He picked a harmonica out of the box Harry was holding. “How d’you play it?”

“Oh, _please_ , Mikey,” Snapback said, rolling his eyes. “ _Everybody_ knows how you play it.” He grabbed an instrument from out of the box and blew on it loudly. Everyone in the shop winced.

“That’s, um, one way to do it,” Harry said, scratching his ear. He put the box down on a stool and picked a small harmonica out of the box. “Ah, if you just—“ He put the harmonica much deeper into his mouth and when he blew into it, a much rounder, deeper sound came out than the banshee’s shriek Snapback had produced. “You’ve got to put it more _in_ your mouth, like,” he said. “You sort of…” He held the harmonica to his mouth again and the sound that came out sounded like it might have come straight off a blues record, but that’s not what Louis focused on.

“So you wrap your lips around it?” Louis said. _Now that’s pretty gay_ , he wanted to add, but… probably not the right crowd. “That’s usually a pretty good place to start, yeah,” he added with a smirk.

Harry pulled the harmonica out of his mouth and went a little red in the face. “There are videos online,” he mumbled. He wetted his lips nervously. Louis let out a sharp bark of a laugh. “Lessons! I mean lessons,” Harry explained, even though the trio didn’t seem to need the clarification. Louis laughed harder and Harry blushed more. “Anybody can do it.”

“Always underselling his talent, this one,” Louis said. Harry made eye contact with him for a fraction of a second and then looked away, shaking his head.

“It’s a lot of fun,” he said to the confused trio. He placed the harmonica he’d been playing on the stool. “What do you think?”

“Bongos and harmonica,” Snapback mused out loud.

“Very manly,” Louis called from the corner, and gave them a thumbs-up.

“Will that be all, then?” Harry said. Louis wondered if the group was too drunk to note the exasperation in his voice. Or if they’d care, if they did. There was no real reason why they should, was there?

“Shouldn’t you get something, Pete?” Aspiring Harmonicist said.

“ _I’m_ the lead singer, dickhead,” Snapback grumbled.

“Whatever,” Aspiring Harmonicist said. He rolled his eyes. “How much will it come to?”

As Harry sorted out their payment, Louis ran his fingers over the piano again. He uncovered the keys and dragged his knuckle across the ivories. Not that they were ivory, probably. It wasn’t a very nice piano. There were blue paint drops on some of the keys. Louis pressed on a few lightly, tunelessly, as the trio packed up their purchases. They didn’t acknowledge him, because why would they? Louis played a few chords and smiled.

Just before the group left the store, Jean Skirt holding an awkward-sized package under her arm, Harry cleared his throat. They all turned back to him. Louis looked up from the piano. “For the record,” Harry said, holding Aspiring Harmonicist’s gaze, “I think it’s fairly rude of you to say that something is gay when you mean that you don’t like it.”

Snapback coughed in a way that sounded like a laugh. Louis’s blood ran cold. He didn’t stop watching Harry’s impassive expression.

“Sorry, mate,” Aspiring Harmonicist said, with a forced laugh. Jean Skirt ducked under his arm out the door. Snapback followed quickly. “Have a good one.”

There was a beat before Harry nodded and shrugged. He smiled, but didn’t dimple. 

“Enjoy your harmonica!” Louis called out as the door slammed shut with a clang.

Harry exhaled heavily and slumped onto the stool behind the counter. Louis tapped out a short melody he remembered from some of his earliest piano lessons a few times before he said, “I can’t quite figure you out.”

Louis didn’t look up from the keys but Harry’s voice had gotten lighter again when he replied. “I’m an easy read,” he said. He picked up his guitar again and started to tune it. “Maybe you should have stayed in school.”

“Maybe _you_ should have stayed in school,” Louis said, repeating the melody again and adding a basic chord. “Instead of, you know, spending your Friday nights deepthroating kazoos for anyone who asks.”

“That was a harmonica,” Harry said, without pausing his tuning. Louis glanced up to see if that delightful flush had returned to Harry’s cheeks, but he seemed unaffected, except for his one-sided dimpled grin. “I only break out the kazoos for our VIP customers.”

Louis looked down at the piano again quickly. “You’re—“ Louis missed a note and winced. “Bugger,” he said, smashing down on the keys indiscriminately and sighing. He looked up as Harry finished tuning and started picking out a scale, and promptly forgot what he was going to tease him about next, he looked so—young. Eighteen. Right.

“You were so obviously angry at the guy and you didn’t get angry.” Louis wasn’t sure how that’s what he ended up saying, he wasn’t even aware that he’d been _thinking_ it. “How do you _do_ that?”

Harry unhunched his shoulders and looked up at Louis. He shrugged. “If I’d gotten angry he might have punched me,” he said.

Louis looked back down at the piano keys but didn’t touch them. “Can’t take a punch?” he said, with a bit of a forced laugh.

Harry played a minor chord. “Prefer not to,” he said, so quietly it might have been to himself.

Louis closed down the cover over the piano and rested his hands on top of it, tapping them nervously. “I punched somebody for the first time the other day,” he said. Harry shifted to a major chord. “It felt good. Maybe you should try it.”

“Don’t think I’d be very good at it,” Harry said. He didn’t pry. Louis almost wished he would.

“What,” Louis said, looking up at last, “do you think you haven’t got the muscle?” He quirked an eyebrow.

Harry dimpled. “Not very coordinated.” Then he played a chord progression that made Louis think that was a terrible lie.

“There’s a lot of things you can get away with with a little muscle, though.”

“You can’t just punch people all the time,” Harry said. He started playing something that felt incredibly familiar, but Louis couldn’t think of the lyrics. “Not practical.”

“Being nice is practical?” Louis tried not to snort, then realized he had no good reason not to. He didn’t anyway. 

Harry started the melody over again. “It’s something,” he said, and Louis couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he just listened. Eventually he put his head down on the piano as Harry kept repeating the song he knew he’d heard but couldn’t place. He’d only had two beers earlier that night, but he felt sleepy-tired.

“So do you just play everything?” he asked a bit later, without opening his eyes. Harry switched the key he was playing in but continued.

“I _really_ don’t,” Harry said. “Just guitar. And, like, banjo, I guess. And ukelele, but that’s not hard if you know guitar. A bit of harmonica. Tried to pick up the flute but my sister got mad I was stealing hers. And I know, like, two songs on piano.”

Louis smiled into the piano. “So you _do_ play everything.”

“Not, like, _well_ ,” Harry protested. “A friend tried to teach me the drums but I almost put his eye out.”

“Hmm.” So Harry was just good with his fingers, then. And a natural with his mouth. _And eighteen,_ Louis reminded himself, _for the love of god, man, you are_ _not_ _that desperate to get laid_. “Right,” he said, a bit more loudly than he meant to, “you said you’re not coordinated.”

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. He switched keys again and finally Louis placed the song.

“Blackbird!” he said, sitting up. “It’s Blackbird.”

Harry laughed. “Well done,” Harry said sarcastically. “Though, I have to say, given how often you like to remind people that you’re a professional musician,” he tutted, “I expected a bit better.”

“Yes, well,” Louis said, waving his hand and putting his head back down on the piano, “I’ve also a very busy schedule. I can hire people to be cultured for me.”

“Naturally,” Harry said. He very abruptly switched to a new tune, and Louis tried to hide his giggle when he recognized it.

“ _Lifestyles of the rich and famous_ ,” they both sang when Harry got to the chorus, “ _they’re always complaining, always complaining…_ ” Harry stopped playing and laughed loud enough that Louis allowed his giggle to escape.

“You’ve got quite a repertoire going,” Louis commented. He straightened up and raised an eyebrow in Harry’s direction.

“That’s nothing,” Harry said. Even in the harsh lighting of the shop, he looked a little too cherubic to say he cackled, but. He cackled. “My knowledge of early-2000s pop punk is vast.”

“I wouldn’t have guessed,” Louis said. He smirked. “Maybe I’ll have to bring you on as a consultant, then.” He got up off the piano bench and sat back down starfish-style on the ground. “Y’know, in case I ever need an early-2000s pop punk expert.”

“Glad to be of service,” Harry said. There was silence for a minute before he started up Blackbird again. Louis wondered how weird it would be if he fell asleep on the floor of the shop. Probably pretty weird. Yeah.

“You’re recording a new album, right?” Harry said after a minute. He didn’t stop playing. “I mean. That’s why you’re in London?”

“Yeah,” Louis said. He squinted up at the neon lights and rubbed his eyes. “I guess so.”

Harry didn’t press. It was the first time they’d mentioned Louis’s career, other than in a joking sort of way. Louis suddenly felt even more tired. So when Harry started playing the chorus of _What Makes You Beautiful_ again, he didn’t have the energy to do anything but moan and clap his hand over his eyes.

For some reason, Harry seemed to find that hysterical, and so he spent the next god-knows-how-long looking up the chords to One Direction songs and playing them while Louis writhed around on the floor of the shop in faux-agony. In the process, Louis learned that Harry actually knew the words to a lot of their songs—and could sing them more than half-decently. Given that most of the other people who could do that were probably girls who were still in school, it probably shouldn’t have been as much of a turn-on to Louis as it was. The longer it went on, the less he found himself groaning and the more he started singing along, eventually getting up off the floor and perching himself on the counter across from Harry.

“— _And let me kiss you_ ,” Harry sang, with a painfully earnest look on his face, eyes screwed shut and face upturned with emotion. Louis kicked him in the knee and Harry yelped, dropping his guitar.

“ _God_ , you’re a menace,” Harry said. He shook his head, smile threatening to break his face, and reached into his pocket before picking up his guitar.

“You love it,” Louis said, smirking. Harry didn’t argue, just frowned as he looked down at his phone.

“Bloody _hell_.”

Louis pulled out his own phone. “Oh,” he said. He crossed his legs. “Weren’t you supposed to close up, like—?”

“An hour ago.” Harry exhaled heavily. “Jesus.”

Louis bit his lip to keep from saying _sorry_. “Well,” he said. He looked around the store. “I think you did complete a business transaction after you were technically closed. You should get time and a half.”

“I should get a bloody watch,” Harry mumbled. He picked up his guitar and set it on the counter next to Louis.

“You do this kind of thing often, then?” Louis needled. Harry seemed upset, tugging his beanie over his ears and pulling at the end of his sleeves. Louis just hoped it wasn’t with him.

“I guess not.” Harry scratched his head. Louis felt the urge to touch his shoulder in reassurance, but he didn’t. “Sorry, I should. Um, close up.”

“Can I help?” Louis said. He tried not to wince at how earnest he sounded. He wasn’t trying to, like, pick Harry up or anything like that. Or… anything. It really shouldn’t matter if Harry thought he might want to help out.

“No, it’s really. It’s nothing.” Harry furrowed his brow. “I should—I’ll tidy up tomorrow, it’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” Louis said. He hopped down from the counter and picked his jacket up off the floor. “I mean. I guess I kept you here, so I can—“

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry said. He shook his head. “It’s fine. No.”

Louis threw his jacket over his arm. “All right,” he said. He fidgeted as Harry took keys out of his pocket and locked up the register. “Do you need a ride home or anything? I’m calling a car.”

“I live just up the street, actually.” Harry jostled the register to make sure it was locked. “Do _you_ need a lift home? My sister keeps her car at my place.”

That would be nice, Louis thought. It would be really, really nice. “Nah, I’ll just.” He shrugged. “Call a car.”

He sat down on the piano bench again as he texted an address to the car service, then waited around awkwardly as Harry switched off all the lights and ushered him out the door.

There was no reason for them not to say goodbye. There hadn’t been a reason for them not to say goodbye two hours ago, really. But Louis didn’t want to.

“I’ll wait with you,” Harry said after he locked the door, before Louis could awkwardly figure out a way to ask him to. Louis blinked at him.

“You really don’t have to do that,” he said. He bit his lip. “I’m a big boy, you know. Used to the cruel world.”

“It’s.” Harry shrugged and put his hands in his pocket. “Not a big deal. Not like anyone’s waiting for me at home except Taylor.”

Ah. Louis shoved his hands in his pockets. “Girlfriend?” he said, casting a sideways glance at Harry.

Harry blinked and shook his head. “ _What_?”

“Okay, _boyfriend_ , Christ, I was trying not to make any _assumptions_ ,” Louis said, rolling his eyes.

Harry covered his eyes with a face for a minute and choked out a laugh. “Taylor is my cat,” he said. “Probably as close to a girlfriend as I’m likely to get, but not my boyfriend. Jesus.” His eyes were glimmering as he shook his head. “ _Talk_ about assumptions.”

Louis felt like kicking Harry in the shin, so he did. That only made him laugh again. “I don’t get why people give pets human names,” he said. He tried not to look too pleased. “Doesn’t it get confusing?”

“Don’t think I’ve ever confused my cat for a human, no.” Harry tried to kick Louis in the shin back and in the process ended up falling into him, laughing. He was warm and tall and solid and Louis stepped back faster than he wanted to. “Sorry,” Harry said as he straightened up again. He crossed his arms and shivered. “She does look a bit like her namesake, though.” Louis raised an eyebrow. “Taylor Swift,” he explained.

“You named your cat after Taylor Swift.” Louis’s sides hurt from laughing. “Oh my _god_ , you’re the worst hipster _ever_ , I’m shocked they haven’t confiscated your plaid.”

“She’s a good songwriter!” Harry insisted. “ _What_.” He kicked the sidewalk and clearly enjoyed how Louis started laughing anew.

Louis put his fist to his forehead and bit his lip before responding. “I met her once, actually.” He shrugged. “Didn’t like her. Something in the eyes, like… she _knows_ things about you, I don’t know, man.”

“Sounds like my Taylor, then.” Harry smiled smugly, then looked over Louis’s shoulder. “That your car?”

Louis glanced over his shoulder. “Oh.” Of all the times for them to be quick, honestly. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I had fun,” Harry said quickly. “With the.” He waved his hand around. “Instruments. Singing.” He sounded a little uncomfortable for the first time since the drunk group had left the store.

Louis’s throat went dry. He nodded. “We should.” They shouldn’t. “Again. Sometime. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, rubbing his hand together and staring at Louis insistently as the car pulled up behind him. “Yeah, soon.”

“Soon,” Louis echoed. He felt a little dazed. “You know, preferably at a time when I won’t get mobbed, but… Soon.”

He was about to get into the car (the driver was waiting, they were in the middle of the road) when Harry blurted out, “We open late on Sundays.”

Louis blinked. “Sorry?”

“The shop,” Harry said, gesturing back towards it unnecessarily without taking his eyes off Louis. “Opens at noon on Sundays.”

“For the drunk brunch crowd?” Louis said. He took half a step backwards towards the car. He really shouldn’t keep the driver waiting any more, but.

“For—“ Harry shook his head. “I meant. If you wanted to, like, play some more. Without the mob.” He tugged on his beanie and crossed his arms over his chest again quickly.

“Okay,” Louis said without thinking. Then he blinked. “Uh, I mean... Sunday.”

Harry looked at the ground. “I’m sure you have—“

“It’s the day of rest, innit.” Louis grappled for the door handle without looking away from Harry. “I mean. I have the morning off. Liam goes to church.”

“I could open the shop up early?” Harry said eagerly. He glanced back at the shop, and Louis’s eyes followed his to the blue piano sitting in the window. “Like. Eight, at the earliest.”

“Eight,” Louis repeated. “Eight on Sunday morning.” If he needed a reason to say no, that was it. That was it. “Okay,” he said.

Harry kept watching him anxiously for a few seconds, then exhaled. “Okay,” he said. “So—I’ll see you then?”

Louis snorted. “You’ll see me as soon as you get home to your life-size One Direction cutout collection,” he said, with a sly grin. “Fanboy.”

Harry smiled back, easier, like earlier. “Don’t say that too loud,” he said, looking over his shoulder. “The neighbors will get jealous.”

Louis wasn’t sure what Harry might read on his face, so he turned quickly towards the car. “G’night.”

“’Night,” Harry said. Louis glanced back at him and saw him chewing his lip as Louis opened the car door. _God_.

It had been hours since he’d had even a beer, but Louis still stumbled into the car. He closed the door quickly, before he made a big mistake. Like kissing Harry on the cheek. Or not on the cheek. He wasn’t sure which would be a bigger mistake. Eighteen-year-olds. Shit. Louis really needed to develop a policy about that while he wasn’t thinking about any particular eighteen-year-old’s lips.

Some other time, then, he figured as the lights of London passed by at an increasing speed.

 

###

 

Louis was early to the studio Saturday for the first time in… he couldn’t remember. Possibly for the first time. So, pardon him if he was expecting someone to comment on it. Or, like, acknowledge that he had arrived at all.

The silence in the lounge wasn’t totally unusual, but it was usually at least partly due to Louis’s surliness, and he was feeling almost chipper that morning. Still, the most acknowledgment he got for his _morning, lads!_ was a wan smile from Niall. Zayn barely looked up from where he was frowning at his iPad, and Liam was hunched over and rubbing his temples.

“What is _wrong_ with all of you today?” Louis said after he’d made himself a cup of tea and still no one had acknowledged him. He hopped onto the counter and swung his legs quickly as he sipped his tea. “Who died?”

Niall looked over at Liam, who didn’t react. For a moment, Louis wondered if anyone would have bothered to tell him if someone in Liam’s family had actually died.

Zayn set down the iPad and frowned in Louis’s direction. “You haven’t seen the papers,” he said. Louis’s throat felt tight.

“I know I’m not in them,” he said, “so no, I tend not to bother.” He clutched his mug with both hands as he took another sip.

Zayn glanced over at Liam, put a hand on his knee, and didn’t continue. “There’s, um,” Niall said. He smiled at Louis weakly for a moment, out of habit, before his face fell again and he continued. “Some photo of Liam got to the wrong people, apparently.”

“Ah.” Louis put down his tea and considered his options. Between teasing and not teasing, teasing seemed like the better option by far. “What did you do this time, piss in someone’s garden?” Louis smirked. “Ladies disappointed that Liam ‘Ten-Inch’ Payne is actually—“

“It was a photo of Liam dancing with someone,” Zayn said quickly. He took his hand of Liam’s knee. “With a dude.”

“That’s _not_ what happened.”

Liam didn’t look up from the ground, just rubbed at his temples again. His leg twitched where Zayn had touched him.

“Angles,” Zayn muttered. “Angles can make a lot of things seem like—“

Liam leaned back and crossed his hands over his chest with a heavy sigh. “I don’t even _know_ that guy,” he said. 

“The headlines are… not great,” Niall said to Louis. “You can imagine.”

Louis snorted. “I can imagine.” He crossed his legs on the counter and picked up his tea again. “Is Louis Tomlinson the only faggot in One Direction? Tune in at ten.” 

“It’s _bullshit_.” Liam stood up and pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning to face the door as he started typing something. “If I could just—“

“ _Liam_.” Zayn scooted down the couch so he was closer to Liam. “You going on a Twitter rampage isn’t going to solve anything.”

“But I’m _not_ —“ Liam’s shoulders tensed and his knuckles went white.

“Radio silence,” Zayn said. He got up and sat at the end of the couch, like he might be getting ready to get up and stop Liam from storming out the door. “I know those guys outside were arseholes but we _talked_ about this, denial’s only going to—“

“But I’m _not a fucking queer_ ,” Liam said in a half-hiss, half-shout. His eyes automatically gravitated towards Louis’s and narrowed. Like it was _his_ fault.

For a moment, Louis considered chucking his mug at Liam. The tea wasn’t that hot. It wouldn’t do _that_ much damage. He wasn’t sure if that was an argument in favor or against.

 _You can’t just punch people all the time_ , Louis heard echoed in his head. 

“And what if you were?” Louis said. His chest felt tight. His voice didn’t feel like it was coming from him. His knuckles went white around the tea but he didn’t move. “Would it be okay then?” He kept staring Liam down until he looked down at the ground, shaking his head slightly in anger.

Louis could practically hear Niall saying _he didn’t mean it like that_ —he might even actually have been saying it, Louis couldn’t tell, his blood was rushing so loud through his ears. He didn’t take his eyes off Liam to check.

“I don’t know what it’s going to take to get you to realize what an insufferable prick you are,” Louis said. His back teeth felt like they might fall out, he was grinding them so hard. “But I’m not going to keep trying to punch it out of you.”

Liam didn’t storm out. Neither did Louis. Instead, Liam sat down again and scratched the back of his head, kicking at the ground. Louis didn’t move from his perch on the counter until an assistant came in and told them they were waiting for them in the studio.

“He just needs time, Lou,” Niall said a bit later, while they were watching Liam and Zayn record a bit of the melody for one of the new songs that had been giving them trouble. He nudged Louis with his elbow slightly and tried to smile.

Louis chewed his lip as he watched Liam tear his headphones off in frustration impassively. “We don’t have any time,” he muttered.

 

###

 

There were half a dozen text messages on Louis’s phone, half of them from unsaved numbers, asking what his plans were for the evening. It was a matter of habit by now for him to check his DMs from Harry at the same time as he was scrolling through his texts.

_@Harry_Styles: we still on for tomorrow morning?_

Louis thought about getting out of bed at six in the morning and grimaced. Another text message popped up, this one from a hook-up Louis barely remembered, _Angel G-A-Y_.

_up for round two?_

Louis actually raised his eyebrows at his phone. “Absolutely not,” he said out loud. He opened up Twitter again.

_@Louis_Tomlinson: yeah, give me your number just in case_

_@Harry_Styles: :)) 0255583940_

_@Harry_Styles: that’s an extremely valuable commodity, don’t go spreading that around_

Louis saved the number in his phone under _Harry Styles_ with an octopus emoji and wrote out a text message: _don’t worry, I plan on keeping you all to myself_

Harry replied with a dragon head emoji. Louis didn’t even know what that was supposed to mean, but he laughed out loud anyway. He set an alarm for six o’clock, and another one for six-fifteen, then put his phone on silent and climbed into bed earlier than he had in weeks. For a fraction of a second, he felt like a bit of a loser for going to bed before ten PM, but… there were worse ways the night could have gone.

**Author's Note:**

> validation from strangers on the internet is my daily bread, so comments and kudos are appreciated. or [come say hi on tumblr](http://socomicallygay.tumblr.com/ask/)!


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